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Acknowledgments
The initial impetus for this project came from Eteri Chkadua, a talented artist and very dear friend, who had been insisting for some time that folk poetry is an essential and valued part of her nation’s literature. It was not without some feeling of reluctance that I began reading the chrestomathy she placed in my hands; after all, I was still prey to the belief that folklore was fine for children and ethnographers, but no match for “real” literature. The poem on the first page was “The young man and the leopard,” and I was hooked. Several Georgian specialists in the fields of ethnography, folklore studies and literary translation have provided invaluable assistance. Zurab K’ik’nadze of Tbilisi State University read an earlier version of my work, corrected numerous errors and misinterpretations, and explained the significance of symbols that had been thoroughly opaque to me. Vakht’ang Chikovani, Rusik’o Choloq’ashvili, and Sargis Tsaishvili shared their expertise with me. Vakhusht’i K’ot’et’ishvili, continuing in the tradition of his father, introduced me to the folk poetry that has been composed in recent times, up to the present day. I am greatly indebted to Eteri’s father, Ambak’o Ch’k’adua, for what insights I have into the Svan language and Svan poetry. While visiting Svanetia in the summer of 1991 I encountered the ethnomusicologists Sylvie Bolle-Zemp and Hugo Zemp, who were recording the traditional music of the Georgian mountaineers. The description of Georgian folksong and musical instruments in this book has been vastly improved thanks to their patient explanations of how, exactly, a lute differs from a mandolin, responsorial singing from antiphonal, etc., etc. In the decade since I completed the first version of the poetry anthology in 1994, my acquaintance with traditional Georgian culture has been deepened and widened by fieldwork in Pshavi, Khevsureti, Svaneti, Rach’a and Guria. There is not enough space here to acknowledge the help of all those who generously shared their knowledge with me, and furthermore permitted an inquisitive, and all-too-often maladroit, outsider to witness the performance of Georgian oral literature in ritual and festive settings. Thanks also go to two non-Georgians from Chicago who have read over my translations and pointed out some clunky spots that needed reworking: Paul Friedrich and Warren Leming. Work on the first edition of this anthology was begun while I was a post-doctoral fellow at the Institute of Oriental Culture of the University of Tokyo, under the auspices of the Japan Society for the Promotion of Science, from February 1989 to February 1991. I wish to express my gratitude to both institutions for providing the wherewithal to realize this project. It has been a great pleasure for me to have had the opportunity to live in Japan for two years, and my as yet superficial encounter with early Japanese poetry has helped to illuminate some aspects of the folk literature of far-away Georgia. Kevin Tuite Département d’anthropologie Université de Montréal

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Violet on the Mountain: An Anthology of Georgian Folk Poetry

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Introduction
This is an anthology of poems composed in a very different way from the works filling most poetry volumes, and translated from a language almost unknown outside of the land where it is spoken. The seventy poems I have translated are examples of what is commonly called “folklore,” which, in the minds of some, would disqualify them from consideration as reading material by anyone outside of an anthropology department. The Georgians themselves see matters differently. Readers esteem poems such as “The young man and the leopard” (#1) every bit as highly as the finest works produced within the tradition of “high culture.” Ballads recorded from the mouths of Khevsur peasants take their place in poetry anthologies beside the masterpieces of the Georgian classical and romantic periods, and children are taught — and made to memorize — works of folk literature as an integral part of their primary education.1 For many of you reading this book, this will be the first encounter with the culture of Transcaucasian Georgia. Only a small fraction of Georgian literature has been translated into any language other than Russian, and what little exists is difficult to obtain. To convey something of the context within which the poems in this volume were created and enjoyed, I will provide a thumbnail sketch of the Georgian people, their country, and their poetry.

The Georgian People and Georgia
The roots of the Georgian people are deeply embedded in the soil of their native country. In the Georgian language the land is called Sakartvelo, “the homeland of the Kartvelians” (which is how the Georgians refer to themselves). As far as can be told, the original Sakartvelo is within the territory the Georgians inhabit to this day: the Republic of Georgia, until recently part of the Soviet Union, and neighboring parts of northeast Turkey. Despite its small size, no larger than the American state of South Carolina, the Georgian homeland has a topographic diversity equal to that of the largest nations: the lofty Caucasus mountain range, with several peaks exceeding 5000 meters; narrow gorges cut by ice-fed mountain streams; lush meadows; arid semi-deserts; and subtropical coastlands along the Black Sea. The Georgians are one of over forty ethnic groups indigenous to the Caucasus region. To the northwest is one group of autochthonous peoples — the Abkhazians, Adygheans, Abzakhs, and Kabardians — and to the northeast another group, the Daghestanians. The Armenians, who have resided in Transcaucasia for at least five millenia, border Georgia on the south, and on either side of them, to the southwest and southeast of Georgia, are Turkish-speaking peoples. In prehistoric times the Georgians were in contact with the great civilizations of old Mesopotamia, and, it appears, with the ancient Indo-Europeans, from whose language most of the tongues of Europe have derived.

1. The same could be said of Georgian appreciation of the literatures of other nations. The anthology of English and American verse translated into Georgian by G. Nishnianidze [Tbilisi: Merani, 1982] includes fifteen folk poems (“Sam Hill,” “The Vicar of Bray,” “Oh no, John,” etc.).

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Over the two millenia for which we have historical records, the Georgians have seldom been left alone. The Persians to the east have been uninvited guests on numerous occasions. The Arabs conquered Tbilisi (Tiflis) in the 7th century, and the Turks began their forays into Georgia in the 11th century. The Mongol hordes led by Tamerlane devastated eastern Georgia no less than eight times in the 1380’s and 1390’s. For most of the period since then Georgia has been under foreign rule, for many centuries divided between the Persian and Ottoman empires. In 1784, in a desperate move to secure protection from the Turks and Persians, King Irakli II placed his kingdom under the sovereignty of the Russian throne, and so it remained until recently, save for a brief period of autonomy after the Soviet Revolution. In April 1991 the Republic of Georgia declared its independence from the USSR.

The Provinces of Georgia
Traditionally, Georgia was divided into about twenty provinces, each with its characteristic climate, topography, agricultural base, customs and dialect. Distinctive character traits are assigned by popular wisdom to the inhabitants of each region (this has been a fertile source of material for Georgian anecdotes and jokes). The provinces can be grouped according to two primary features: terrain (highland vs. lowland) and situation to the east or west of the Likhi mountain range. The Likhi range is Georgia’s “continental divide,” and for many centuries marked the boundary between that part of Georgia under Persian domination, and the western half, which was largely incorporated into the Ottoman Empire. Here is a list of the provinces, divided according to these two features: EASTERN GEORGIA Northeastern highlands: Khevsureti, Pshavi, Khevi, Tusheti, Tianeti East-central lowlands: Kartli, Kakheti, Trialeti WESTERN GEORGIA Northwestern highlands: Upper and Lower Svaneti, Racha, Lechkhumi Southwestern highlands: Meskheti, Javakheti, Achara, Chaneti West-central lowlands: Imereti, Mingrelia, Guria In evaluating the assimilation of foreign influences by Georgian culture, it is important to note a certain geographical specificity to the process. While the more accessible central lowlands have served as a virtual crossroads between Orient and Occident, the inhabitants of the northern Georgian mountain districts, both east and west of the Likhi range — some of which had never yielded to a foreign army until the tsarist period — have held on to their ancient folkways and pre-Christian religious systems to a degree unparalleled in modern Europe. Until very recently, oracles (kadagebi) practiced their trade within a few dozen kilometers of Tbilisi; animal sacrifices and the pouring of libations, traditions reminiscent of Homeric Greece, are still commonly observed in many parts of Georgia today. In regard to folklore, and poetry in particular, these mountain provinces have yielded a wide array of motifs and genres not to be found elsewhere in Georgia.

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The Georgian Language
The South Caucasian language group (also known as Kartvelian) comprises the Georgian language proper with its sixteen or so dialects, and two related languages of limited distribution: Zan, spoken in the provinces of Mingrelia and Chaneti, and Svan, the language of the inhabitants of Upper and Lower Svaneti. Georgian has been a written language since at least the 5th century, giving it a recorded history longer than that of most European languages. The earliest Georgian writings to have come down to us are ecclesiastical in nature: translations of the Bible and the works of the Church Fathers, lives of saints. The first examples of secular literature, most of it poetry, are attested in the 12th century. One could say that the Georgian language epitomizes the nature of the culture. It has borrowed extensively from Arabic, Persian, Greek, the modern European languages and the tongues of neighboring Caucasian tribes: But these borrowings have been limited to vocabulary items. The grammatical structure of the language has not been affected in any significant way by its neighbors, at least not within the 1500 years for which Georgian has been attested in written documents. It has drawn freely from other languages, assimilated their words into its lexicon, but without in the least yielding its fundamentally Caucasian nature. In its phonological component, the Georgian language (likewise Svan and Zan) has a healthy inventory of consonant sounds — though not nearly as many as Abkhaz and the other Northwest Caucasian languages — which can appear in clusters of five or even more without an intervening vowel. In addition to voiced (b, d, dz, j, g, gh) and aspirated (p, t, ts, ch, k, qh) consonants, Georgian has a series of glottalized obstruents, which are pronounced with a simultaneous closure and release of the vocal cords (transcribed as p’, t’, ts’, ch’, k’, q’). For all this, the language is by no means harsh sounding — quite the contrary. One German linguist wrote that Georgian speech reminded him of “the murmur of flowing water.” A statistical analysis of sound frequencies has shown that Georgian has a higher incidence of vowels (relative to consonants) than English, nearly as high as Spanish. Still, skilled poets can heap on the consonants when a particular effect is desired, for example, the turn-of-the-century writer Vazha Pshavela describing one of his heroes as mk’lav-mskhvili rk’inis mk’vnet’avi “a thick-armed iron-biter” [“Gogotur da Apshina”]. The morphology of Georgian is very complicated, in particular the conjugation of the verb. There are markers in the verb to indicate the person and number of not only the subject but the object as well. The system of aspects, tenses, and moods coded in the Georgian verb is rather involved; one is reminded of classical Greek or Sanskrit. The nonwritten dialects differ to varying degrees from the standard language. The Georgian spoken in the mountain districts of Pshavi, Khevsureti and parts of Racha bears a stronger resemblance to the literary language of eight centuries ago than to the speech of modern Tbilisi. The Zan dialect spoken in Mingrelia, and to an even greater extent the dialects of Svaneti, are incomprehensible to Georgians from other parts of the country. (Some 19th-century scholars even doubted whether Svan was related to Georgian at all). Each dialect lends its own flavor to the poetry of its region, creating a diversity of inflection, accent, and vocabulary that is truly remarkable in a country as small as Georgia.

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VIOLET ON THE MOUNTAIN National Character, Religion, and Beliefs
In view of the grim history of nearly continuous warfare and foreign occupation that fate has visited upon the Georgian people, one might wonder what imprint it has left on them as a nation. Foreigners who have dwelt in Georgia for any period of time have invariably been impressed by the Georgians’ effusive hospitality (a practice they share with many West Asian peoples), boisterous and vivid personalities, and fondness for wine and feasting. The Georgian supra (banquet) can go on all evening into the wee hours of the morning, with each guest consuming several liters of wine. These heroic quantities of alcohol are drunk in accordance with strict rules: the participant in a supra must pronounce a toast — to another guest, to Georgia, to the souls of the departed, etc. — before drinking each glass, or drinking horn, of wine.2 The toasts are frequently occasions for a display of eloquence, and are accompanied by song and recitations of poetry. (Many of the poems contained in this volume are intended for just such a context). If Georgian hosts appear to us to be recklessly improvident in the lavishness with which they entertain their guests, it does not seem so to them. In these celebrations of life and of their bonds to each other, they have discovered a uniquely effective way of making life bearable under the most adverse circumstances. As evidence of what he termed the “amoral and untrammeled mind” of the Georgians (HGP, p 72), the British historian W. E. D. Allen made reference to their attitude toward (organized) religion: the rareness of fanaticism, the subordination of religion to national feeling, and so forth. If one examines Georgian folklore, however, one sees that “religion,” in a sense, is very important indeed, coloring all aspects of the intellectual culture. Many of the poems contained in this collection are hymns to be performed at festivals, or texts of a mythic nature. What we must take into account is that, although Georgia has been a nominally Orthodox Christian country since the 4th century, an indigenous pre-Christian religion was actively practiced in many parts of Georgia up to the beginning of this century and even more recently in some areas, where, with the restriction of official Georgian Orthodox activities under the Soviet regime, syncretistic Christian-pagan rites conducted by the village elders had become the sole forms of worship.3 The Georgian-French scholar G. Charachidzé has given a thorough description and analysis of Georgian “paganism” in his book Le système religieux de la Géorgie païenne (Paris: Maspero, 1968). I will touch on only some of the major elements of this religious system here.4
2. See “The rules of the supra or how to drink in Georgian” by D. A. Holisky [Annual of the Society for the Study of the Caucasus #1, 1989]. 3. Not all specialists share this view. The Georgian ethnographer Zurab K’ik’nadze, with whom I spoke in the summer of 1991, sees the paganism described here as an innovation, a religious system cobbled together out of Christian elements in the late middle ages, after Mongol and Persian invasions had cut off the mountains and other peripheral areas from the cultural hegemony of the orthodox Orthodox center. 4. Charachidzé’s monograph remains the most complete overview of Georgian highland religion in a WestEuropean language. For further information, and for interpretations differing from Charachidzé’s structural analysis, readers can consult the works of Bardavelidze (DRV), Ochiauri (ARG), K’ik’nadze (SC), Tuite (AM, LSP), among many others. Heinz Fähnrich’s Lexikon Georgische Mythologie [Wiesbaden: Reichert Verlag, 1999] offers a useful, easy-to-access digest of the Georgian-language ethographic literature. The abbreviations used here and in the notes to the poems refer to the references listed at the end of the book.

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Pantheon: The traditional Georgian religion is commonly described as polytheistic, but there is a clear distinction between the Supreme God (Morige Ghmerti), creator and sustainer of the universe, and all other divine beings. As a result of long contact with Christianity, many of these have taken on Christian names, so that, as was the case in some parts of Europe, the cult of a “saint” is founded upon the worship of a pagan deity. Among the principal figures in the pantheon of the Georgians are “St. George” (Giorgi; in Svan Jgëræg), the “Archangel” (Georgian Mtavarangelozi; Svan Taringzel), and a hunter deity and protector of wildlife in the high mountains (in Svaneti represented as the goddess Dæl or Dali). Important female figures include Barbal “St. Barbara,” a fertility deity and healer of illnesses; and Lamaria “St. Mary,” protector of women. Krist’e “Christ” presides over the world of the dead. Two of these personages are of particular importance, especially for readers of folk poetry. Dali, the Svanetian hunter goddess, is a popular subject of mythological poems. She is represented as a woman of fabulous beauty, with long golden hair worn in braids. Svans believed that the success of a hunter depended on the degree of favor with which Dali looked upon him. Many poems tell of legendary hunters being seduced by Dali and then being destroyed by her out of jealousy, or because the hunter violated some taboo. Georgian scholars have devoted considerable attention to the Dali cult and its variants. The ethnologist Elene Virsaladze has advanced the provocative hypothesis that the figure of a protector-goddess of wild animals is a remnant of a yet more ancient, “matriarchal” ideological system, in which the chief deity(ies) were female, and religion celebrated the life-giving principle and harmony with nature.5 With time — especially after the introduction of Christianity — the ancient beliefs were supplanted by a more aggressive, “patriarchal” ideology. Evidence for this includes the cult of a male hunter-deity (Ochop’int’re) in the northeastern provinces (believed by Virsaladze to be of more recent date than the Dali cult), and the elevation of the warrior-god St. George to preeminence in Georgian religion.6 St. George, depicted as a knight on horseback slaying a dragon, is venerated in all corners of Georgia, and hundreds of churches and shrines throughout the land are consecrated in his name. Myths recount his exploits in making war against the Kajes, a race of demons with magical powers, and under his numerous epithets he is invoked in prayers as the chief protector of humanity. Two apotheosized historical figures appear frequently in folk literature of a religious nature. They are Tamar, derived from the monarch of that name who presided over Georgia at the zenith of its power (early 13th century), and Lasha Giorgi, named after her son, who reigned as George IV. Both are represented in folklore as warrior deities, subduing the enemies of Georgia. In the dialect of the Georgian mountaineers, notably the Pshavians and Khevsurs, deities can be referred to by the terms jvari, which in the classical language means “cross,” or khat’i, which means “icon”. Depending on context, these words can denote an actual cross or icon, the shrine in which it is kept, or the deity associated with the shrine.

5. This argument is laid out in particular detail, with extensive illustrations from Georgian folklore, in Virsaladze’s Gruzinskiy okhotnichiy mif i poeziya [Moscow: Nauka, 1976]. 6. One is reminded of the religious system of ancient Europe, as reconstructed by Marija Gimbutas, and its subsequent replacement by the masculine-centered ideology of the Indo-Europeans (see her The goddesses and gods of Old Europe [Berkeley: University of California Press, 1982]).

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One suspects that the different meanings are not as distinct in the conception of the mountaineers as they appear to us. The edifices where religious ceremonies are carried out are, in most cases, Christian churches, over 10,000 of which are known to have been constructed in Georgia. In some areas, and especially in the provinces of Pshavi, Khevsureti and Tusheti, the villagers constructed shrines of stone, many of them adorned with the horns of sacrificed animals. Relations with the Souls of the Dead: One of the primary functions of religious observances is to maintain contact with the souls of deceased relatives. This is accomplished through various rituals and the offering of sacrifices and libations. Especially important are funeral observances, followed by a period of mourning. In traditional times, the close relatives of the deceased would be in mourning for as long as three years. They would fast (abstain from animal products), wear mourning colors (black, or sometimes red), and the men would shave their heads and faces and let their hair grow out until the end of the mourning period. Failure to observe these restrictions was believed to have unfortunate consequences for the soul of the deceased. The departed souls led a somewhat shadowy existence in a world similar to the one they left behind. Their well-being in the spirit world was related to their sinfulness before death, and the zeal of their surviving kin in making prayers and sacrifices on their behalf. Once a year at the festival of Lipānal, held in the province of Svaneti in mid-January, the souls of the deceased were believed to return to their families (HEE I 56-58). They remained in their former homes for several days and were entertained with feasts and the recitation of folktales. Also during this time, the souls met and determined the fortune of their kin for the coming year. Food and Drink Offerings: Four types of offering are utilized in traditional Georgian rituals: (1) livestock (most often oxen and sheep), slaughtered in or alongside the shrine precincts; (2) various kinds of breads; (3) alcoholic beverages; (4) beeswax candles. The beverage of choice is wine, save for the highland districts where grapes cannot be grown; in those areas beer or vodka is used. Many Georgian religious festivals are accompanied by the presentation of animals for sacrifice at the shrine, followed by a feast at which their meat is cooked and eaten. During the feast the various deities are invoked, and after each invocation the participants drink from their cups, bowls or drinking horns. According to custom, they must drink to the bottom of whatever vessel they are using. On certain feast days — this is especially common in Svaneti — the women bake loaves of flat bread, sometimes with a cheese or meat filling, which are held up during the invocations. Offerings of food and drink are especially important in commemorations of the dead. The Georgians believed that the souls of deceased relatives are sustained by offerings made by the living. Traditionally this involved the setting out of food for the souls to “partake” of, and the pouring of wine or vodka onto the ground. This custom can be observed in remnant form in Georgia to this day: at every supra (banquet) a toast is proposed in memory of the deceased, after which the participants pour a small amount of wine onto a piece of bread.

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Relations between the Sexes: Among the Caucasian mountaineers of a hundred years ago, the relationship between wife and husband was not an especially warm one — indeed, they scarcely spoke to each other, according to some accounts (SR 80-83). This may be a reflection of two conflicting characteristics of mountaineer society: it is exogamous, that is, one must marry outside of one’s clan, and at the same time, to a degree, xenophobic. The wife brought into the clan from another social group remained, in the view of society, an outsider. As though to compensate for the emotional sterility of marriage, a relationship that Charachidzé terms “anti-marriage” came into being, evidently many centuries ago (SR 101; FY 131-140, 157-165; SKh; AM). The custom, known to the Pshavians as ts’ats’loba, survived almost up to World War II in the isolated mountain villages of Pshavi and Khevsureti, and a similar practice has been noted in Svaneti (AM 49-52). Charachidzé has assembled the facts that have come down to us concerning ts’ats’loba, and analyzed them within the context of archaic Georgian paganism (SR 96-109). I will give a short summary here. In Pshavi, where the custom was best documented, a boy and girl entered into ts’ats’loba by their own volition (in contrast to marriage) and with the full knowledge and assent of the village community. They were free to spend the night together — in fact, required to on certain feast days — and caress each other affectionately. They expressed their love for each other openly, and the songs inspired by ts’ats’loba form a stunning contrast to the grim battle-epics and mythological poems that make up the bulk of the Pshav-Khevsur literary corpus. Several examples are included in this anthology. At the same time, ts’ats’loba was governed by stern constraints. Mountaineer society regarded the young couple as, essentially, sister and brother. Should the woman become pregnant, she and her “brother” were ostracized, a punishment befitting those who had committed incest. More importantly, two people bound by ts’ats’loba were strictly forbidden to marry each other, just as blood siblings would be. The warm and affectionate relationship between “brother-spouse” and “sister-spouse” had to give way to the socially necessary union of marriage. This inexorable law took its toll: suicides were not uncommon among young women separated from their ts’ats’ali upon engagement (SR 102; see poem #59).

Georgian Folk Poetry
The Georgians are avid producers and consumers of poetry. Poems are recited or sung in a variety of contexts, and with a variety of contents. Among the genres represented in this anthology are epics, hymns, love poems, work songs, humorous poems, lullabies, and “philosophic” poems, with observations on the nature of life and death. At this point I will launch into a somewhat lengthy discussion of the mechanics of Georgian folk poetry. Since there is next to nothing presently available on the topic in languages other than Georgian, I will go into more detail than I would have under other circumstances. Meter: Georgian, like French, is a syllable-timed language, that is, the unit setting the pace of speech is the syllable. (It therefore contrasts with stress-timed languages like English or Russian, in which stresses occur at more-or-less regular intervals, regardless of

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the number of intervening unaccented syllables). Although Georgian words are accented, the accent is not very prominent, and does not affect the flow of speech. As is natural for languages of this type, Georgian verse is structured according to a fixed number of syllables per line. This appears to be a uniform condition throughout the territory where Georgian and its related languages are spoken. Other than that, the structure of Georgian verse shows considerable variation from one province to another and, since most poems are to be sung, from one style of song (or dance) to another. The three principal parameters are: (1) number of syllables to the line; (2) subdivisions within the line; (3) fixed or alternating line length. Certain combinations of these features are especially common, either throughout Georgia or in particular provinces. I will describe the more frequently-employed metric patterns here. (A). Octosyllabic. By far the most commonly employed syllabic quantity is eight to the line. Lines of this length occur in poems from all provinces of Georgia. One of the oldest poems attested in Georgian literature — Gundni igi zetsisani (“The heavenly choirs”) by the 10th-century writer Ioane Zosime — was composed in units of eight syllables, and Rustaveli’s “Knight in the leopard’s skin” employs sixteen-syllable lines throughout: two hemistichs of eight syllables, divided by a caesura.7 In a handful of poems represented in this anthology (for example, #38 “Glory to the archangel”) there appears to be no recurring rhythmic subdivision of the eight-syllable line. In the vast majority of cases there is such a subdivision. These metric patterns correspond to what medieval Georgian writers referred to as “high verse” (maghali shairi: lines divided evenly, 4+4) and “low verse” (dabali shairi: lines divided unevenly into two- and three-syllable groups). (A1). 4+4: Folk poems with evenly subdivided eight-syllable lines are not extremely common. This pattern does predominate in certain areas, in particular Svaneti. Here is an example of Svanetian “high verse,” from the poem “Dali is giving birth on the cliff” (#3): Dæ-lil k’o-jas // khe-lghwa-zha-le, Khe-lghwa-zha-le // twe-tna:m k’o-jas. Ge-zal i-sgwi // kaw ja-shq’e-da, Kaw ja-shq’e-da // k’o-jas ka-men. [Dali on-cliff // is-giving-birth, Is-giving-birth // white on-cliff. Child your // indeed has-fallen, Indeed has-fallen // cliff down-from]

7. Shota Rustaveli [born c. 1170] was the finest poet active during the Georgian golden era of the late 12th and early 13th century, and, it is generally conceded, the greatest Georgian writer of all time. Only one of his works has come down to us: the Vepkhist’q’aosani (“Knight in the leopard’s skin”), an epic poem comprising nearly 1700 quatrains. Georgia at the time was an important center for intellectual contact between the Byzantine West and the Persian-Arabic East, the philosophies of which were being synthesized into a new humanism. Unlike any Western Christian writer of his time — or for a long time thereafter — Rustaveli betrays no partiality toward the doctrines of his faith: the philosophical and cosmological framework of the Vepkhist’q’aosani draws as much from Platonism and Islam as it does from Orthodox Christianity. Several English translations of the epic exist, of which the first, by Marjorie Wardrop, is in many ways still the best.

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(A2). 3+2+3, 2+3+3, 3+3+2: The meter known as “low verse,” in which eight-syllable lines are subdivided into two three-syllable groups and one of two syllables, appears to be the predominant form. It is the meter most favored by poets of the northeast Georgian highlands, and is also frequently employed in almost all other provinces of the country. In some poems, the line has one primary division (3+5 or 5+3); the subdivision of the fivesyllable group may not always occur in the same place. Here is the beginning of poem #7 “Avtandil went hunting,” as divided into feet by J. Bardavelidze [DGF I, 127]: Av-tan-dil // ga-di- // na-di-ra Ke-di // ma-gha-li // t’q’i-a-ni; Verts kha-ri // mo-hk’la, // verts puri, ver-tsa // i-re-mi // rki-a-ni. (3+2+3) (2+3+3) (3+2+3) (2+3+3)

This is the same rhythmic pattern as that to which some Georgian folk dances (for example, the dance entitled “Kartuli”) are performed: Dim-di // da-ur-i /// dim-di // da-uri (RFl 259). Pentasyllabic verse was also favored by the important 12th-century Georgian courtly poets Chakhrukhadze and Ioane Shavteli. (C). Lines of alternating length. Several poems from the provinces of Guria and Kartli have eight-syllable lines alternating with lines of six or seven syllables. (In some instances — for example, “Samaia” and “Iavnana” — the alternating line is a sort of refrain.) These are all intended to be sung, so the pattern is set by the accompanying music. The opening lines of “I am an unmarried woman” (#46) will illustrate: Ga-sa-tkho-va-ri // ka-li var, Ne-na // ar mi-p’i-rde-ba, La-maz bi-ch’ebs rom // she-vkhe-dav, Gu-li // a-mi-t’i-rde-ba. [Not-yet-married // woman I-am, Mother // not she-advises-me, Beautiful boys when // I-look-at-them, Heart // it-begins-to-cry-on-me] (5+3) (2+5) (5+3) (2+5)

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In connection with this discussion of Georgian poetics, something should be said about the methods used by the performers of these verses to fill out the correct syllabic quantity, when the words they have selected fall somewhat short of the required length. Svan poets will on occasion insert schwa syllables (/ë/) into certain words to lengthen them appropriately. In the following lines from “Dali is giving birth on the cliff,” the word anghri “s/he comes” is expanded by one or even two schwas to fill out the line: E-snær za-grush // me-tkhwyær a-nghri, Me-tkhwyær me-psæy // a-në-ghë-ri, Me-tkhwyær me-psæyd // te kha-re-k’i, Za-grushw me-tkhwyær // ch’ur a-nghë-ri. [Then mountain-ridge-from // hunter he-comes, Hunter Mepsay // he-comes, Hunter Mepsay // eye he-hung-it-on-it (= looked around) Ridge-from hunter // indeed he-comes] Pshavian, Khevsur, and Kakhetian poets commonly append the syllables -a and -o to the end of the line to bring it up to the required eight syllables. These endings derive from actual morphemes, but have been emptied of their original meaning. (As an extreme example, fifteen of the twenty-six lines of “At Khidistav we’ll make a pact” (#14) end with a semantically-unmotivated o). Rhyme: The earliest recorded Georgian poems — liturgical hymns composed in the 10th and 11th centuries — made no use of end rhyme. Rhymed poems begin to appear in the Georgian literary record toward the end of the 11th century, but the use of rhyme does not become widespread until the rise of secular poetry a century later. Rhyme is also not found in Svanetian poetry, but it is almost ubiquitous in the folk poetry of every other Georgian province. These facts can be interpreted in at least two ways. According to one hypothesis, the unrhymed 10th-century hymns and Svanetian poems represent the more ancient state of Kartvelian verse. Given that Svaneti, high in the Caucasus mountains, is home to many archaic cultural and linguistic phenomena that have disappeared from other parts of the land, this argument has much to speak in its favor. A second line of argument attributes the lack of rhyme in liturgical poetry to Byzantine Greek influence. It is the very rich rhyme schemes, with rhymes of three or even four syllables at the end of each line in a quatrain, found in the courtly poetry of the 12th and 13th centuries, that represent the “natural state” of Georgian verse. If one considers the morphological structure of the language, one can see why the use of rhyme is almost inevitable in Georgian poetry. The Georgian verb can have five or more suffixes, and the noun up to three. By setting the line-final words in parallel syntactic and semantic contexts, one can get two or three rhyming syllables for free, so to speak. For example, in the Pshavian poem “The young man and the leopard” (#1) the first rhyming pair is k’ld=isa=n=i “[those] of the cliff” and ch’iukh=isa=n=i “[those] of the steep incline.” In their bare-stem forms these words would not even come close to rhyming (k’lde // ch’iukh), but by adding identical case and number suffixes (=isa=n=i) a three-syllable rhyme is obtained. Likewise, in “Poem I will declaim you” (#15) the placing of two verbs in the second-person-singular inchoative conjunctive guarantees three rhyming syllables 19

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(ga=h=kveq’n=d=eb=od=e “may you be broadcast”// a=h=q’vav=d=eb=od=e “may you blossom”). The lack of rhyme in Svanetian poetry can be accounted for by the converse argument: Suffixal groups are shorter in the Svan language, and morphologically more irregular, which makes rhymes much less readily available. Georgian folk poetry also makes use of “slant rhyme.” Specifically, the resonants /n/, /r/, /l/, /v/ often occupy parallel positions in rhyming syllables. By exploiting this device, extremely long sequences of rhymes can be obtained. The poem Perqhisa “Round-dance” (#55), for example, has twenty-two consecutive three-syllable rhymes, many of them slant rhymes of this type (for example, bdzania “he-is”// jvaria “cross”// salotsavia “shrine”// dedupalia “queen”). Returning to Rustaveli, we recall that one poetic device of which he was especially fond is the use of homophonous words or phrases in the rhyming portion of the line (called majama in Georgian — the word, and perhaps the concept, was borrowed from Persian). In one quatrain (VT 177) three lines end with the sounds danasa. In one it is read as a verb (da=nas=a “it destroyed its beauty”), in another as a noun (dana=sa, dative case of dana “knife”), and in a third as two words (da na=sa “and the panpipe”). Non-literate Georgian poets have also exploited majama in this way; here is an example from the Kartlian poem “A young man’s wish” (#29): T’urpa baghi da ts’alk’ot’i Ek’lita vinme she=nar=a. Rk’inis k’arebi sheaba, K’lit’e me momtses, shen ara! [Lovely garden and orchard With-thorns someone he-planted-it-with-thistles. Of-iron doors he-hemmed-it-in, Key to-me he-gave-me-it to-you not] The sound sequence shenara is first employed as a verb (it appears to be a nonce formation from the noun nari “thistle”: “he thistled [the garden] with thorny plants”), then as two separate words (shen ara “not you”). Another instance is in the song “Charirama” (#45) where the line-ending sequence manana is read as a proper name (Manana “Heather”) in line 2, and as a verb (m=a=nan=a “it-made-me-regret-it”) in line 4. Poetry and Music: Most folk poems are intended to be sung. The traditional Georgian musical genres are as numerous as the poetic genres, and it would go far beyond the aims of this book to discuss them with any thoroughness. I will limit my discussion to a few short examples of the musical settings of Georgian poems, to give Western readers some idea of how they are performed within Georgian culture.8
8. Readers who would like a more direct experience of Georgian folk music in its full variety have a range of recordings to choose among. The Rustavi Ensemble, directed by Anzor Erkomaishvili and Pridon Sulaberidze, have been touring and recording for decades, and remain the benchmark for the groups who have come on the scene more recently. Among the latter, I recommend the Riho Ensemble from Svaneti, directed by Islam Pilpani; the female vocal group Mzetamze; and the Georgika Georgian men's choir (the two latter choirs record with Face Music). Also worth listening to is a recording of Svanetian folk music, recorded in the field by the ethnomusicologist Sylvie Bolle-Zemp (in the series “Le Chant du monde”, issued by the Musée de l'Homme).

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(A). Homophony. Many folk songs consist of a single melody line, with or without instrumental accompaniment. The epic ballads of Pshavi and Khevsureti, recounting the exploits of legendary or actual warriors, are of the former type, sung to the accompaniment of the panduri, a three-stringed plucked instrument of the lute family. Among the poetic genres associated with a-cappella homophonic singing are the urmuli (sung while hauling a load in an oxcart [uremi ]) and the khmit nat’irali, a form of lamentation for the dead. An excerpt from each is given here. The text of the Kakhetian urmuli in Ex.1 [HGF #8] mainly consists of the nonsense syllables aru aralo, variants of which accompany many Georgian folk songs (for example poem #48: Araru darejanasa). The Khevsur lament shown in Ex.2 [from GFS] is performed responsorially: a solo mourner (typically a woman) intones a phrase, and the others respond, in this case with nonsense syllables. For more on the manner of performance of funerary songs, see the notes to poems #59-61. (B). Polyphony. Georgia is almost alone in the Caucasus region in having a tradition of polyphonic folk music. Several varieties are recognized, with different degrees of harmonic complexity. The simplest type involves a single melody line accompanied by a drone bass. The song excerpted in Ex.3 is a plowing song (gutnuri) from eastern Georgia [HGF #13], with an extremely simple two-note bass line setting off the melismata of the solo tenor voice. Somewhat more elaborate are three-voice songs of the type shown in Ex.4 [HGF #2], consisting of a melody line, a descant moving roughly in parallel with it, and a drone. As is common in Georgian folk singing, a single voice leads off with the first two or three bars of each segment. Ex.4 is one of several published settings of poem #17. In some parts of Georgia, and especially in Svaneti, the basses have their own melody line instead of a sustained drone. Many Svanetian hymns and choral laments (zari) utilize harmonic and melodic progressions unfamiliar to Western ears. Ex.5 is taken from the archaic hymn to the sun Lile (see notes to poem #38), which is sung in alternation by two three-voice male choirs [HGF #4]. Note the startling leap of an augmented fourth in the upper voice that announces the entrance of the second choir. Poetry and Dance: A few of the poems in this anthology are accompanied by dance as well as music. Especially noteworthy are the songs (Betgil, Perqhisa, Samaia) which set the rhythm for the dancing of the perkhuli or round dance. This dance is an important accompaniment to certain traditional religious ceremonies, and its form has special meaning. (The representation of people dancing in a ring is a frequent motif in Svanetian folk art.) Here is a description of how a song is performed during the dancing of the mrgvali (“round”), a round dance known in Georgian mountain communities. The dancers are divided into two choirs, each with its leader, that join to form a circle.The leader of one half-circle sings a line of text, which is repeated by his choir. Then the leader of the second choir sings the same line, usually with some variation, followed by his group. The leader of the first choir then intones a second verse, and so it proceeds, with four iterations of each line. Traditionally the tempo was kept slow, to allow the song-leader time to improvise each line [GHM 203]. A particularly elaborate round dance, the kor-beghela, is described in the notes to poem #57. Round-dance songs are most commonly in triple meter. The excerpt in Ex.6, sung to the text of poem #54 (“Violet on the mountain”) accompanies a women’s round dance

21

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[music from GFS]. An example in quadruple meter, from Guria, is shown in Ex.7 [HGF #51]. Improvisation: In a discussion of performance, something should be said about the role of improvisation in Georgian folk poetry. While many poems, especially the longer ones, are to a degree re-created anew at each performance on the basis of a memorized plot framework and an inventory of set phrases, special mention should be made of the practice of shairoba (from Arabic shair “verse”), also known as k’apiaoba, which the Georgians of the northeast highlands have maintained up to this day. This is a type of poetry contest, in which two individuals try to get the better of each other through boastful or humorous poems composed on the spot.9 Numerous examples of these poetic skirmishes have been recorded by Georgian folklorists. Here is one such encounter [GMD 96], which took place in Pshavi in 1913 between a certain Nadira Kumiashvili and Q’ruv Giorgi (“Deaf George”) Mgeliashvili, one of the most celebrated exponents of the craft of poetic improvisation. The challenges and responses are in the format most typical for shairoba: strict eight-syllable lines with end rhyme between even-numbered lines: NADIRA Shamogwxwdi, Gogolauro, Ert shenats gagaqhneineb. DEAF GEORGE Mets k’arga gagibot’it’neb, Peqhsats ver mamatsvleineb. NADIRA Tsot’as gdzeli gakw nik’ap’i, Kvisad sam ts’agak’reineb. DEAF GEORGE Ts’aval, gichivleb sudshia, Tsikheshi dagambeineb; Mag mama-p’ap’is pulebsa, Zed st’olze dagatwleineb. [We encountered you, Gogolauran (clan name) Now I will plow you under, too.] [I will brace myself against you, You won’t be able to budge me.] [Your chin is a little long, I will hit it against a rock somewhere] [I will go complain to the court (Russian sud), and get you hauled off to jail; That money you have from your ancestors, I will make you count it out on the table (to pay your fine).]

VIOLET ON THE MOUNTAIN The composition of the Anthology and the Manner of Translation
I will confess straight off that my personal preference was one of the major factors in the selection process. Aside from that I have tried to include representatives of each major genre, and from most, albeit not all, Georgian provinces. Of the various types of poem, the most conspicuously underrepresented is the PshavKhevsur warrior epic. These are versified accounts of the exploits of past heroes, who proved their valor in feats of arms against the tribesmen of Chechen-Ingusheti and Daghestan. The innumerable skirmishes, cattle raids, and revenge attacks between the nominally-Christian Georgians and the nominally-Moslem North Caucasians have provided material for an extensive corpus of epics. Unfortunately, the texts are often highly elliptical and impossible to interpret without the background knowledge of clan history that could be presupposed of the intended audience for these ballads. On the other hand, love poetry, in particular poems connected with the practice of ts’ats’loba, are somewhat overrepresented, for which the translator’s sensibilities are solely to blame. A word about the manner of translation: I have selected what I feel is the closest equivalent to Georgian syllabic meter that comfortably conforms to the stress-timed nature of English speech. In most translations the number of stresses (i.e. poetic feet) per line is kept constant. I have avoided end rhyme, despite its presence in most of the poems selected, so as not to place excessive constraints upon the translation process. As I intend this book to be of interest to folklorists as well as the general reading public, I have attempted to stick closely to the meaning of the originals. My policy has resulted in some thoroughly non-idiomatic English poems, but it is my hope that the readers will find the closer contact with the flavor of Georgian folk poetry a sufficient compensation.

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The young man and the leopard The bare-cheeked youth told his story: “I went out hunting and wandered Steep paths, winding and narrow. Crossed over high mountain crests. I came to the head of a cliff and Found a herd of ibex; I shot the largest one, The valley rang with the crash of his horns. Then I started for home, But lost my way in the mountains. I came by a leopard’s den, By then it was late at night, When the leopard leapt out My eyes burned with godly wrath.” The lad and leopard joined battle, The earth was trembling beneath them, They made the cliffs to crumble, And tore the trees to shivers. His shield no longer shielded Him from the nimble beast. Nor did it give the lad time To make himself ready to fight. Its claws tore into the breast Of the youth’s chain-mail shirt. Still the lad kept his hand On the hilt of his sword. Then the French blade cut home And both fighters collapsed. The leopard hung over the cliff, Blood dripping down from its paws. At the head of the cliff slumped down The young man, his life-force now spent. He too colors the ground Crimson with blood pouring forth. Who will tell his mother? The seers now sit by her door. “What need has my poor mother Of oracle or fortune-teller? Let my companions go searching In crevices deep in the mountain. Perhaps they might find the bones 31

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Of what was a handsome young warrior. And my sisters — tell them, for my sake They should cut off their braids, And not go about with their friends While mourning for their dead brother.” The mother wanders about Keening and shedding tears: “My son had met with a leopard, A fearsome, accursed beast. He with sword, it with claws, Darkened the day for each other. The leopard was surely no coward, Nor did he treat my son mildly, They met, and each slew the other, Neither brought shame on himself.” Weeping, she dressed her son’s wounds, Torn by the leopard’s claws. “Son, you’re not dead, only sleeping, Worn out from your heavy labors; This, your chain-mail shirt, How could the beast tear it open? You were truly his equal, You wore down your sword in battle. You met him, one man, alone, There was none else to save you. Your foe gave you no time, Nor did you let him prepare. The shield you held in your hand No longer served to protect you, Nor could the leopard’s claws stave off The sword that hacked at his bones. No more will I weep over you, You are not one to be wept for. In war, in the front ranks of battle, You never brought shame on yourself. Indeed I have raised a son Fit to do battle with leopards. Be at peace, with the sign of the cross That marks the door to the grave.” The leopard and also her son Appeared to her as she slept. Sometimes the animal was ripping The armor worn by her son, 33

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And sometimes again her son Was throwing the beast to the ground. Each time she saw these dreams She awoke, wet with tears. And then she would think: without mother No child enters this world. It is likely that this leopard’s mother Is grieving as sorely as I. I will go, yes I will see her, And bring her words of compassion. She will tell her son’s story And I will tell her of mine. For he too is to be mourned Cut down by a merciless sword.

The bride from Akhmeta I was a woman from Akhmeta. Oh, my goodness me, For twenty-five years to a tailor They apprenticed me. Where the eye of the needle is Remained a mystery. So they prepared me for marriage. I said, “this pleases me.” I put on gobs of make-up And colors without restraint; Then I did my eyebrows With black antimony paint. The bridal party arrived; I said “this pleases me.” They played the shawms and tambours; I danced abominably. When I joined the round dance, They beat time with a stick. They brought me a fine brown horse: I mounted it right quick. I set my foot in the stirrup, At a gallop I sped away. I rode up to the church door: “Bring me the priest, I say! Hurry up, you dog-souled man, 35

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Come and open the door!” When he didn’t answer, This really made me sore. He couldn’t read the prayer book, I tore it away from him. The deacon, too, got on my nerves, I punched him on the chin. Soon I quieted down, I’d been upset, of course. Before the groomsmen came, I jumped back on my horse. I spurred him and galloped off, I left them in my dust. The bridegroom hollered after me: “Hey, lady! Wait for us!” All of their fuss and yelling, I paid no heed to it. Halfway down the road I stopped, Took out an apple and bit. I arrived at the palace gates And jumped down from my horse. They invited me to the table; I broke a bowl, of course. When they brought me a drinking horn This certainly pleased me. They brought me wine in a jug: I slugged it down with glee. Then they brought out a pitcher, I drank and slaked my thirst. My mother-in-law came toward me; I turned my back on her, She put some sugar in my mouth. Too bad her fingers got bit. Then I went back in the house And looked for a place to sit. I placed a pillow on a chair And plopped down on my seat. I whispered to my mother-in-law: “I want something to eat.” She roasted me a shishkebab. This insulted me. I rummaged through the cupboard For food of quality. 37

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I put the skillet on the fire, Set butter and eggs to fry. Then I poured some honey on top. “This pleases me,” said I. An omelette of a hundred eggs, I ate it all, alone. I kept on beating my mother-in-law, Drove sister-in-law from the home. The hair that I tore from the heads Of my husband’s mother and sisters I laid it all out on the roof, Then plucked out his father’s whiskers. I put his beard-hairs on the fence For all the neighbors to see. I met my bridegroom with a kick And pummeled him awfully. With an oaken cudgel I went at my brother-in-law; “Thank God I’m still alive,” he said Cowering behind the door. I gave birth to a baby Two weeks after my wedding. I went to the neighbor women And told them everything.

Dali is giving birth on the cliff Dali is giving birth on the cliff, Is giving birth on the white cliff. The child you bore has fallen down, It has fallen from the cliff. Below a wolf is standing watch, The wolf below has seized the child, Now it runs off down the field. A hunter comes from the mountain ridge, It is the hunter Mepsay who comes, The hunter Mepsay looked around; From the ridge the hunter comes. The wolf was running down the field. The hunter Mepsay watched for it, The hunter Mepsay, at the gate., In the forehead shot the wolf, 39

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He made it drop Dali's child. He took the child up in his arms, He slung the wolf's pelt from his belt. Dali is keening on the cliff, Yet even louder the cliffs are keening, Now the hunter Mepsay comes, He comes to the foot of the white cliff. “Mother of mine, let down your braids!” “May you have a mother’s blessing; I have none who calls me mother, The beast bore off the one who did.” “Here I am, I am your child!” “Who is the one who rescued you?” “The hunter Mepsay rescued me.” “We will grant him these three choices: If he chooses, then each day He will catch a male roe-deer; If not, then every hunting season Nine ibex will be given him; Or, if not, he may lie with me.” “I do not dare lie with you, Let me have the nine ibex instead.” She brought out nine head of ibex, She included a gold horn among them. The hunter took aim at the gold-horned one, But his bullet did not hit it, It rebounded toward his forehead, It brought down the hunter Mepsay.

The fleeting world What is the fleeting world? It is a rolling stone; The moment we are born The grave is ready for us. Wherever you go in the world There will be two paths, The dry land in between, A great sea lies around it. We are Adam’s children, Even the Tatar’s our brother; Between the Armenians and us, 41

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What is the difference, really? If someone pledges you sisterhood, She’ll be the best of sisters; So may you be of a mind Pure as the open sky. If you do not believe this, What then is born from the womb?

The lad from Tavparavani A lad from Tavparavani, Was loved by a maid of Aspindza. He had a wide sea to cross, But in no wise was he daunted. The woman had lighted a candle; The candle sent forth its beam. A certain evil-souled crone Plotted the young man’s destruction. The taper that gleamed in the window She snuffed out, to bring him to grief. And said to herself as she did so: “Did not this boy once love you?” The young man cut through the waves, His heart and lungs were not strained. With one hand he held a millstone, With the other he swam the sea. From over the water a candle Shed light to the other side; By now the night had fallen, A night dark as blackest pitch. Wave pounded on wave And strove to make the lad drown. He lost his guide-beam, was confounded; Before him a whirlpool roared . . . The morning dawned bright and cheery, Bright as a gay maiden’s eyes. The waters had drowned the young man. He drifted ashore at Aspindza. His red shirt of finest silk Fluttered in the soft breeze; An eagle perched on his corpse, Tore at his heart and was sated. 43

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Nestan-Darejan Nestan-Darejan, where did you sleep? — The end of the meadow. What was your blanket? — Golden brocade. I came and uncovered you, kissed you three times; These three kisses, they made your face blush. With blushing face, she wrote a letter. What was enclosed? — Bright silks and satin. Where did she send it? — To David the King. How did she send it? — By mule and camel. What was sent back? — Velvet brocade. Who unloaded it? — One hundred men. How did she cut the velvet brocade? — The point of a scissors. How did she sew it? — The point of a needle in cut-crystal fingers. How did she don it? — With delicate hands, and full of rejoicing. How did she doff it? — Bitterly weeping. How did she wash it? — In her hot tears. On what did she hang it? — An aloe-tree branch.

Avtandil went hunting Avtandil went hunting On a high ridge, in thick forests, Caught nothing — not buck nor doe, Nor hart with full-grown horns. At last his hawk-feathered arrow Brought down a swift roe-deer; He hung it down from his saddle, The whole deer, not yet skinned. 45

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He rode to the edge of the forest, Lighted a roaring fire, Sat and whittled a skewer, Started the meat a-roasting. While the meat was sizzling He let his horse roam to graze. The horse caught sight of a man Coming toward them from afar. The dapple-grey reared up and whinnied, This man is evil, he felt. Avtandil called his squire: Bring me my steed straight away. He patted the horse on the rump, Mounted, was off like the wind. He raced down the narrow path, Across the field even faster, Looked back — in swift pursuit An infidel army was coming. Of a hundred, he struck down each man, Till one, dressed in black, remained. This man let fly an arrow, And Avtandil’s blood gushed forth. Leaning against an oak-tree, A branch drawn in front as a shield, He slumped down and wrote a letter, Then tied it onto a dove. Bring this news to my mother: I’ll come no more to you. That white veil that you loved, Now dye it black for me. My cloak and felt overcoat Hang on the door as a shield; My dagger and my belt Give to the priest as an offering. And as for my young wife, Don’t marry her off too soon. But if you do, to a man With eyes and strength greater than mine. My fortress and manor-house Send them with her as a dowry.

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Ah, how I love those clouds Ah, how I love those clouds Spread over Borbala Mountain. They rejoice so at the prospect Of being joined with each other. Now they have come together, They sprinkle soft drizzle on me. No matter how much they try They’ll never part us again.

I’ve likened you to red wine I’ve likened you to red wine Standing in a glass; Who could desire a kingdom Lying in your arms? The sun will never be darkened In the space around you.

The stream bore me a wood chip The stream bore me a wood chip Cut from a poplar tree. Wood chip, say what my lover Sent as a message for me. — Your lover of slender frame, I saw him: cut through the bone. I rose up and wept for him, Covered his corpse with small stones.

A rose blossomed upon your cheek A rose blossomed upon your cheek, It adorned you with its clear hue, By your eye, like a beauty spot Glistened a dewdrop wafted from heaven. A jealous breeze threw itself at you, Tousled your finely-braided hair; Raven-dark brows and eyelashes sheltered 49

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Eyes of smoothly polished jet. Eyes? What eyes? No, celestial lights That once gleamed in the moonless sky, Then were brought down to this world As a comfort to weary souls. A smile had pressed itself to your lips, Lips that glowed the color of flame; Pearly teeth were scattering forth Light beams on the fields around. What Tamar! Who is Ketevan! How compare Eteri to you! You sink your shaft in the gazer’s heart; Crazed, he runs through woods and fields. I have wandered the lands of Europe, Hither and yon o’er distant seas; Nowhere could I find a beauty Such as that you possess.

Why do you want a beautiful woman? Why do you want a beautiful woman? When you’re at war what good will she be? She will dress up in reds and yellows, Come out of the house and stand by the door, Any man who would gaze upon her Will melt away like a beeswax candle.

The mountaineer I was born in the mountains, Courageous and unyielding: An eagle flying skyward, An elephant, unbending. In my love for my homeland I will never relent. I love the mountain Q’azbeg, Forever covered in ice, The sheer rock walls of Q’uro, The ibex prancing there.

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At Khidistav we will make a pact At Khidistav we will make a pact: We will be blood brothers, We’ll pounce on the Mukhran-Batoni, Bring down the roof on his head. Whatever he has, we will take: Precious stones, pearls, and rubies; We’ll go inside and lead out A woman, bright-eyed and fair-skinned. Woman, what woman? A woman With hair reaching down to her ankles. Hair, what hair? With hair that is Sevenfold long and luxuriant. She will wear golden earrings Jingling a tune in the wind. Others will say — Ah, if only My eyes could view her forever! We’ll set her on an Arabian horse, Tie on a sword to her waist, We’ll place a cap on her head And fold her hair up beneath it. Let us kiss three women like this, Till the skin on their cheeks rubs off; Then let us be off to Sagarejo, Where we will all get married. For seven days, seven nights, We will be revelling there.

Poem, I will declaim you Poem, I will declaim you, For soon I may be dying; But, so that I’ll be remembered, You stay behind in this world. Young men like me will sing you, You will join the panduri’s sound; Let the world have fun While I rot away in the grave. My wish for you, my name, Is that you’ll long be remembered; My wish for you, my words, 53

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Is that you’ll spread through the land; And you, the earth on my grave, May you come alive with flowers. Household, do not disperse; Wife, do not marry another. I want to find out one thing: Who will be mourning my death? Who will be shedding tears, Who will be deeply distressed? I think of this, and my heart Brings the truth to my mind: No one, except for my mother, Will truly mourn at my death. Although my sisters and brothers Will dress in unadorned garments, And my wife will be weeping So much that all are amazed, Still, a short time will go by And they will be comforting others. Then everyone will forget me, Others will console them. But in mother’s heart I’ll remain, She will not sleep at night. A blessing on the breasts that fed me! With all her heart she will mourn me: Mothers love their children; We children soon forget them. And so, this fleeting world Fills us with remorse.

Oh wretched, fleeting world Oh wretched, fleeting world, I gobbled you up like a khink’al; Old age crept up, bent me over Like the rocker on a baby’s cradle. The devil got me in one eye, Stung it like a burning nettle; I squint with the eye I have left: It seems like the gloom before dawn. 55

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Lullaby The violet and the rose, nana, O violet naninao, The lords have honored us with their coming, O rose naninao! They came to us and made us glad, O violet naninao, Their father’s sister has come here too, O violet naninao. We will rollout a carpet for her, O rose naninao. We do not think that fine enough, O violet naninao. We’ll set a plush rug over it, O rose naninao. Here is the mother of the lords, O violet naninao. She stands by a cradle made of gold, O rose naninao. Inside the cradle a lordling sleeps, O violet naninao. They have hair the color of gold, O rose naninao. A satin blanket lies over them, O violet naninao. Adorned with gold and silver brocade, O rose naninao. They are all wearing shirts of silk, O violet naninao. Girdled around with the crescent moon, O rose naninao. For their buttons they have the stars, O violet naninao. Strands of rubies around their necks, O rose naninao. Gently rocking back and forth, O violet naninao. Singing a tuneful lullaby, O rose naninao.

VIOLET ON THE MOUNTAIN
Seven lordly sisters and brothers, O violet naninao. Said “let’s settle in seven towns, O rose naninao. In all seven we’ll pitch our tents, O violet naninao. In all seven we’ll have great feasts,” O rose naninao. In the sapphire storage room, O violet naninao. There is wine and the rubies glow, O rose naninao. Inside a cypress tree has grown, O violet naninao. On its branches are narcissus blooms, O rose naninao. A nightingale has perched there too, O violet naninao. The peregrine falcon spreads its wings, O rose naninao. I picked a violet and spread out a rose, O violet naninao. I laid them both before the lords, O rose naninao.

Speak, o fortress ruins Speak, o fortress ruins, Of the times you have seen, Tell us by whom you were built, And by whom destroyed. The fortress ruins told This remarkable tale: I was built by Shalva, I have a foundation of bronze; Bloodshed and whizzing arrows — I have seen many such things. I was blessed by the clan-chief, There were no priests back then, He prayed that I would never Fall to enemy hands. Zurab Eristavi 59

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Could not bring me down, Although my breast and loins Were smeared with warrior blood. There stood a cypress beside me, Consecrated to God; A certain old man of Ghuli From the clan Alshaureli, Told them to put a cat Upon the tree, and kill it. The chain that bound it to heaven Retracted, and hissed like a snake.

A man’s death To a true man, brave of heart, Death will seem no more than sleep; The coming of the mourners Will seem like his wedding day; The grave into which he is lowered Will seem to him like his home; The dark coffin in which he rests Will seem to him like his room; The vermin crawling over him Will seem to him like his children; The snakes wrapped around his neck Will seem like the arms of his wife.

The sun is my mother The sun is my mother, The moon is my father, The twinkling stars Are my sister and brother.

I was Tamar the Queen I was Tamar the Queen: I bowed my head to no one, I set my boundary-stones in the sea, The dry land came under my rule. I laid a tax on the Kajes, Took tribute from Isfahan, My sword fell on Stambul and Derbent, I levied a land-tax in Sham. I crossed impassable mountains And opened up great thoroughfares, Traversed the thickest of forests, Set churches on the high rocks. I, who accomplished such deeds, Took nought but a nine-yard cloth.

The Battle of Gumbri The time of captivity lay upon us: The enemy captured our homes and land. There were no longer crops to harvest, Mountain and lowland were scarred by flame. A brother no longer forgave his brother, Nor his wife, nor sister-in-law; Each one’s tongue had grown sharp, It could sever your head like a sword. They called this a time of chaos. There is no way out, they said. They were saying: the Sultan’s armies Are cutting across the seas toward us. From here our king has gone to meet them; He goes, attended by his army. One after another the soldiers march Like a herd of sheep in summer. 63

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Those who saw them were amazed: There are not roads enough to hold them. They joined battle by Gumbri fortress, The blood they spilled formed into lakes. The smell of lead and powder rose, Rifles gleamed with tongues of flame. Sundered heads and feet came down As though raindrops from the sky. The wounded men are brought to town, There, on the riverbank, lay the dead. From the city they send the word: Khevsurs, come, we need your help! The sons of Khevsureti gathered. They had much to talk about. You, warrior, must go there too, Where other men have made their names. Some said: They will get a medal. Others said: The Cross of Blood. And some said: Those who give their lives Will live on by word of mouth.

[Svanetian nonsense song] Ak’alæ-æd, mak’alæ-æd, Ekhsa, pekhsa, on the mountain-pass, Rik’sa, pkhik’sa kondarasa, Cha-amsæri bërdaluq’wi. Lime on lime, want on want, On want, on the cow in the stable. The bear of Tsena’s tail-fat, Tail-fat melted on the hearth, 65

Gonja came to the door Gonja came to the door, He rolled his eyes around. Melting snow, grain through a sieve, God will give us rain. He will make the fields produce Maize to make our corn-bread.

The mandolin and the girl The girl and the mandolin, Dalalale, mandolin. The girl went to the city, She brought back some grapes. She fed no grapes to me, She took them to the church. The church gave me no blessing, They dug me a grave. I did not fit in it, They shaved down my sides, Then they took the shavings, Strewed them over me. The girl and the mandolin, Dalalale, mandolin. This boy dances well, He stands upon his toes, 67

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Should he hurt his feet, I wonder who he’ll blame. The girl and the mandolin, Dalalale, mandolin.

A young man’s wish This lovely garden and orchard, Someone has hemmed in with thorns, Set an iron gate before it, And gave me the key, not you! In place of your death I would gladly Offer my own life instead. Alas, if it should turn out That I am in love, but not you! This lovely garden and orchard, Someone has planted with thorns, Set iron doors before it, And gave me the key, not you! Rather than you suffer death I would Offer my own life instead. Alas, if it should befall me That I am in love, but not you!

I am Qhel-Samdzimari I am Qhel-Samdzimari, I am a woman of Kajeti. My bracelets and my buckles jingle, I’ve golden hair and golden slippers. At that time I had the power: I sojourned upon the earth, I fetched chervil and wood-sorrel, At that time I had the power. Kholiga Abuletauri Yearned to have me as his wife; I embraced him, lay beside him, I drew him close to my breasts. I sojourned in Kajeti, I drove cattle back from there. 69

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Place-mother Place-mother, Mother of God, Bring us a bountiful yield, Plowed by the oxen, Milked from the cows!

The woman Khwaramze In the East appeared A woman of resplendent beauty, Her earrings and her rings Jangled in the wind; A vassal came up with her, His sabre painted red. — Kiss the woman Khwaramze, I am the woman’s husband. — The foolish young man kissed her, Then split his own head with his sword. — What means this, foolish youth, Why did you kill yourself? — Khwaramze grew angry, Let down her hair from above, She saddled her father’s steed And she herself jumped on. The roads of Trialeti Are not enough to run on, The great Algeti mountains Are not enough to graze on, Three stones of solid salt Are not enough to lick on, The Alazani and Kura Are not enough to drink from. It came to the Gumbri waters, Eyes ablaze like lightning; It slurped up the sea till it dried, It burst its saddle girth. Any woman like Khwaramze Would boast of her womanhood; No sharp sword could cut her, No knife make her afraid. 71

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A hunter trapped under a snowslide Three months under a snowslide: March, April, May. I broke my bow into slivers And made a fire with it. I ate a bear, skin and all, Is it for this I am damned? I came out and went to my mother, She did not know her own son. I went to my wife’s wedding party; Is this kismet or what? The ice had held me together — I warmed up, and I fell apart. Send me off with some money, And I will have fun somehow; In the world beyond there’s a tavern: I’ll drink up their wine and get drunk.

Sun, sun, come up Sun, sun, come up, And I will kill a pregnant sheep, I will roast and salt it for you, Set it on a plate before you.

Sun inside and sun outside Sun inside and sun outside, O Sun, come on inside! The rooster has already crowed, O Sun, come on inside! It has dawned already, O Sun, come on inside! Dawn if you will dawn at all, O Sun, come on inside! You have dawned already, O Sun, come on inside! Sleep, why do you let me sleep, O Sun, come on inside! I am so unhappy, 73

The land of souls Those cut off from the sun’s domain Gather in the land of souls. In the land of souls, young people Come together in one place. They light candles, beeswax tapers, Set the table for a banquet. In the land of souls, old people Sit down at the table’s head. The young folks, in prime of life, All rise to their feet and chant. Lovely women, wives and sisters, Sit there in the candlelight. Newly-sundered wives and husbands Show up in the land of souls; There is no light in their eyes, There comes no sound from their lips. The old people, gazing on them, Burn with sorrow for their fate. Small children in the land of souls Wander, searching for their mothers; When the day draws to a close, They ofttimes become distressed; They recall their mothers’ breasts, With nought to suck on but their thumbs. 75

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They will hug the knees of strangers, Crying “Mother, we are hungry.” They push them away, replying “Do you think we are your mothers?” The tears of mothers left behind Fall like raindrops on the children; Dampened to the skin, the children Cannot dry their clothing out. Those little ones with aged parents Are sheltered underneath their garments; Those little ones who have no parents Wander mutely shedding tears. They have wept and sobbed so much They no longer can draw breath. The old people, gazing on them, Burn with sorrow for their fate. In the land of souls old people Search for canes and walking sticks. On each day of celebration They have hope of sacrifices; Those with none to pray for them Must sit with their backs toward the table. If someone should pray for them It brings blessing on their souls. I, the one who made this poem, Am called K’obe Chak’oani.

Mirangula Ot’! Alas, poor Mirangula, You, your mother’s only child, She had spoiled you in the tower, They brought up your meals to you. May Wednesday night be smeared with pitch! They brought Mirangula’s supper, Mirangula was not there: He had gone to fight the Savs. Mother looked out from the window: There he stood, on Machkhpar mountain. “Oh, your mother’s Mirangula, All that could be done you’ve done, This will be your final journey!” 77

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At the spring he watched a herdsman. That night, when it had grown dark, He killed the herdsman at the spring, Led away nine head of oxen. This the Savs had soon found out. A group of Savs came after him. He shot eight times, he shot nine times, He killed eight Savs, maybe more, Forced the chasers to turn back. He continued on his way. A group of women too pursued him. “These are good-for-nothing women, How could such as they catch me, Without underwear or veils!” These as well he made turn back. He continued on his way. He came to the mountain pass, Driving the nine head of oxen. But for that accursed Vezden! Vezden took a shorter path, He was watching at the pass. Vezden made his rifle shout: It rolled Mirangula over. He rose to his knees, dismayed: “O God, judge of what is right, Do not leave me unavenged!” Mirangula’s rifle screamed: He shot Vezden in the chest. Now he has killed Vezden, too. “Hat’! may my fate stand upright! I will not be unavenged: I have gunned down nine Sav tribesmen, Led away nine head of oxen. At’! Alas, poor Mirangula, All that could be done I’ve done, This will be my final journey!” The curly hairs upon your head, Mice will use them for their nests; The skull that is inside your head, Snakes will use to lay their eggs; The ribs that are inside your chest, 79

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Hawks will use to line their nests; And the whites around your eyes, Will be mirrors for the crows. Ot’! Alas, poor Mirangula, The oxen you seized from the foe They stood in a ring around you. Pity, too, the priests of Ushgul, They had gone for trade to Malq’ar; They were captured by the Savs, Who shaved off their beards while standing. Pity, too, the wives of Ushgul; They stripped off their underwear. Praised be Ushgul’s St. Lamaria! Then the priests escaped from Malq’ar, On the road found Mirangula. The nine oxen he had captured They took for a lukhor feast. Praised be Ushgul’s St. Lamaria! The lukhor feast is held in Ushgul. — What will we bake for his sepsk’wer? — We will bring Lenjerian wheat. Then Lamaria spoke to them: “I will not have lentil sepsk’wer!» She asked for Jerusalem wheat. The threshing-place is At’k’wer mountain, The winnowing-place is Mushur pass, The drying and grinding at Twetnuld’s peak. “Praised be Ushgul’s St. Lamaria! We will bake this for his sepsk’wer.» Monks are dwelling by the Black Sea: Holy wine was brought from there. From the sea God sent an ox, Tapers, incense on its horns. Ushgul’s chief was Pankwesyan, At Ushgul the lukhor started. Mukhruchyan from the valley’s end, He was toasted at the lukhor. The floor broke under the gathered priests, Then they went their separate ways.

VIOLET ON THE MOUNTAIN
Glory to the Archangel Glory, glory, O Archangel! We are praying for our welfare, For you are the one who saves us! There was a barrier built around it, A barrier wall with golden pillars, Inside, it was filled with glory, His chalices were gleaming brightly; It was filled with cups and armor, His armor was of hammered metal; His tower was adorned with frescoes, At its base a river flowed, Its embrasures ringed with falcons, Ibexes lay at its sides: A vision brighter than a mirror. The oxen sacrificed to him Have horns bedecked with hammered metal, They plowed up the central square, On every ridge they paw and bellow; The rams offered up to him On every ridge fight with their horns.

Wish A lake of blood swirls in the meadow, Where is the stream flowing out? Within lies a crimson serpent, Its head moves; where is its tail? Loving too much brings doom to many, But has anyone understood?

Cousin Aleksi Cousin Aleksi stood and asked, At the edge of the village: Mother, was I born for this, Is this why you rocked my crib? I loved my work and loved my life, I loved to mow the hay and corn; 83

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But the Tsar had sent for me, His policeman stood before me: — You must go and join the army, It’s your number that they picked. — I set off to do my duty; There was no way out of this. I bid farewell to my family, Mother packed some food for me. Mother, there’s no point in grieving, There are many just like me, Many on the field of battle, Lunch and dinner for the crows. Dear Aleksi, where’ve you gone? Your sickle’s turned to rust, I fear. Your lovely wife is cheating on you, She’s become the Ossetes’ playmate.

A lover’s heart O wretched mist, how you love To cling to the mountain tops, Or join up with the clouds And float with them in groups. My heart is scarred and wounded, It has yet to heal. What medicine could cure it, What could bring relief? Wretched heart, what have you done? What about you, fettered tongue? Rye-colored boy, you were singing, Then left — I wish I knew where. If I could turn into a bird, If I could learn how to fly, I would come flying to you, You know the birds’ language, I’m sure!

VIOLET ON THE MOUNTAIN
The wedding party of the lice Wah, how hard you have been, Wretched poverty! I have worn this same shirt For about three or four years. Inside it lice are brooding, Bringing up their chicks. They are remarkable creatures: Each one has twelve feet. The lice are having a wedding, They’re calling to start the round dance. Now they have brought out the bride, Dressed in marten furs. They have got barrels of beer, And plates with candles on them; Just look at how these lice Empty their drinking horns!

Love In vain I came into this world. A man should never grow up, Never turn white from fury, Never burn with passion, Never be pained by worry, Never be wracked by his heart. If only the thoughts of the heart Could be seen with the eyes, If a man has one heart or two, All of this be understood; It should be a law, that the heart Be always full with love. If you are wholehearted toward others, Goodwill will go with you always. May the old ways be destroyed And a new order begin, So that to be with you always Will be no occasion for scandal: I wish that I would be buried 87

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In a grave over your heart, So that my shoulders and arms Would melt down onto your heart; I would not rise from you ever, And so my life would be sweet. They could not take you from me Should even an army come at me.

How long I have been weeping How long I have been weeping, How many tears I have shed, Still, my heart has not changed, Nor have I given up hope. When I am thinking about you I am seared by the fires of Gehenna! Your eyes and brows live in my memory, That golden moustache of yours, And how your moustache’s shadow Spreads its black line on your face. You are a guest of the wild deer For the past three or four years; Brother, the bullets you shot Have brought them nothing but harm. If they cannot do you justice, May all Pshavi fall into ruin, May the twelve clans of the province Disperse and vanish away! You killed your wife’s abductor, What other wrong have you done? I have written a letter, Signed my name at the bottom; Send me, brother, in secret, An answer with all of your news. No one shall betray you, None lay a hand upon you. The name that they call me is Tamar, And my nickname is Lelia; For four years I’ve held from afar This love for you, though it’s so hard! I know not your home in the woods, 89

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Nor have I a chance to come there. I would send you a shirt For you to wear on your chest. If only I could live with you, Or else by slain by your side.

Chari-rama Char-char, chari-rama, Chari-rama, O Manana! Woman, for the love of you I’ve come to rue my life itself! Char-char, chari-rama, Chari-rama, O Magdanel, You can puff up and be happy, You who burn and torment me! Char-char, chari-rama, Chari-rama, O Gulkana, Come and let me kiss you once, White and fluffy, plump and sassy. Your blackberry eyes and eyebrows Take my very heart away! Char-char, chari-rama, Chari-rama, O Magdana, Oh, if only there were some way I could be with you right now! Char-char, chari-rama, Chari-rama, O Matrona, If only we could live together, Lord and lady of our household. Char-char, chari-rama, Chari-rama, uncle’s wife, We are dying from starvation, Won’t you even bake us something? Char-char, chari-rama, Chari-rama, father’s sister, If only we’d the strength and power, Such as we have need of now. Char-char, chari-rama, Chari-rama, father’s brother, Our sword and dagger turned to rust, We’ll never take them up again. 91

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Char-char, chari-rama, Chari-rama, O grandfather, I can’t find Georgian tobacco, And makhorka drove you crazy. Char-char, chari-rama, Chari-rama, my dear brother, If we go on living like this, It is bitter herbs and poison.

I am an unmarried woman I am an unmarried woman; My mother is no help to me. When beautiful boys catch my eye, My heart wants to burst into tears. I have an apple to play with, I dropped it, it’s rolling toward you; If you will not be mine, May you be cut off at the roots!

VIOLET ON THE MOUNTAIN
There you are, on the other side There you are, on the other side And I, alas, am over here, I would surely come to you, If only I could find some way; The obstacle is large indeed: The river Khobi churns between us — From afar I gaze on you, Unhappy me, eyes full of tears.

I wish I could turn into something I wish I could turn into something: Turn into a nightingale, And learn the nightingales’ language; I’d come to dwell in the garden. I’d gather up golden bouquets, Dip them in liquid silver, I’d come to you in the evening, 95

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And lay them out on your roof. When you come out in the morning, May they be entwined in your curls!

Your eyes Your eyes are worth all Ossetia, And your lashes — Arabia; Your hair — Chochkhati, eyebrows — Lesa, The point where they meet — Ozurgeti; Being and playing with you — The pillar of light in heaven; But as it seems you do not love me, I shall praise you like this no more.

VIOLET ON THE MOUNTAIN
she waved her hand at us and came over here, Bright-eyed woman. Woman, my husband is [+ II] not at home, Bright-eyed woman, my husband is not at home, Bright-eyed woman. Woman, he has gone to [+ II] build a fortress, He has gone to build a fortress, Bright-eyed woman. Woman, rocks have fall[+ II]-en down on him, Rocks have fallen down on him, Bright-eyed woman. Woman, the bringer of [+ II] news has come, Bright-eyed woman, the bringer of news has come, Bright-eyed woman. Woman, they have killed [+ II] your husband, Bright-eyed woman, they have killed your husband, Bright-eyed woman. May it truly [+ II] have happened so, Bright-eyed woman, may it truly have happened so, Bright-eyed woman. So may I be [+ II] left with you, Bright-eyed woman, so may I be left with you, Bright-eyed woman.

VIOLET ON THE MOUNTAIN
I will give the [+ II] messenger a gift, Bright-eyed woman, I will give the messenger a gift, Bright-eyed woman. A bull with a white [+ II] spot on its forehead, Bright-eyed woman, a bull with a white spot on its forehead, Bright-eyed woman. Like a black crow [+ II] I go out to the tree, Bright-eyed woman, like a black crow I go out to the tree, Bright-eyed woman. My husband will [+ II] take care of me, Bright-eyed woman, my husband will take care of me, Bright-eyed woman. Like a [+ II] precious pearl, Bright-eyed woman.

Violet on the mountain Violet on the mountain, on the snowy mountain, I planted a violet, up came a rose, Violets to my ankles, roses to my neck, A herd of deer came over this way. May they graze freely, but trample them not. The groom went out with his father-in-law, They met on the mountain a large-antlered buck. The son-in-law shot — he killed the buck. The father-in-law shot — he killed the groom. — “Barbara, my child, what can I tell you? I killed your husband, don’t kill yourself.” — “May you, my father, my father so noble 101

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Never find rest from the sin you have done. When I asked to marry, you would not let me, Now I am married — you killed my husband.” Give me a hatchet, to cut me a path, Give me a candle, to light me the way! — Go up the valley and go down the valley There you will find the one you had loved. I went up the valley and went down the valley And there I found him, the one I had loved. A raven perched on him, tore at his eyes . . . — Scram, raven, scram, insatiable one! Tear not his eyes: There was a time he saw me with them. A raven perched on him, tore at his arms . . . — Scram, raven, scram, insatiable one! Tear not his arms: There was a time he embraced me with them. A raven perched on him, tore at his lips . . . — Scram, raven, scram, insatiable one! Tear not his lips: There was a time he kissed me with them.

Round dance The Cross of Lashara spoke: A golden chain linked me to heaven, The Qhmelgora oak stood beside me; There I ascended to heaven. My vassals’ praises and gifts I brought up to the Lord; The cursed one, Aptsiauri, Tore out my tree at the roots. When he entered the outer gate He wore a smile on his lips; I turned his collar around I filled him with woe and distress, Then I consumed his grandchildren And those of his womenfolk.

VIOLET ON THE MOUNTAIN
We gathered in God’s court At morning, we, God’s offspring. A message came to us From the Creator’s mouth, The Creator spoke unto us: — I formed the solid land With all its ornaments, Adorning mountains and plains. Around it I set three seas: The white, the red, the black. Above I covered the sky With copper, glass, and bronze. I have made the world With a thousand faiths; I placed the sun and moon, And many days and nights. Three score and three St. Georges Reside in the world’s four corners To hear the prayers of Christians, Marked with the sign of the cross. The children, the offspring of God, To hear the prayers of Christians, The children of God have one Saint Tamar the Queen. There came a command from God, She belted a sword at her waist, Took over her father’s kingdom Though herself a woman; In the sea’s midst she set Iron boundary gates, Took the dry land for herself, For she had such power. Tamar set her throne At the Qhmelgora shrine. Directly across, on the hill, Stood proud Lashara’s Cross; Beside him, a mist-grey steed With wings of bright dove-blue, A golden saddle on top And reins of liquid gold. Potent and prepared, His vassals were spread around. He journeyed through his fief, 105

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Gathered a mighty army. Whoever dislikes these words, His downfall will be harsh. But he will aid the faithful, Be at his side at once. With the Lord’s victory May you be signed with the cross.

Betgil Poor Betgil, unhappy Betgil! Ba-il, il-ba, il-ba, ba-il. Mulakh-Muzhal have assembled, Ba-il, il-ba, il-ba, ba-il. They stood for the Lentekh round dance Ba-il, il-ba, il-ba, ba-il. A white roe-deer jumped out toward them, Ba-il, il-ba, il-ba, ba-il. It ran right through Betgil’s legs, Ba-il, il-ba, il-ba, ba-il. This indeed is Betgil’s fate. Ba-il, il-ba, il-ba, ba-il. — Who will go chase after it? Ba-il, il-ba, il-ba, ba-il. — Betgil will chase after it. Ba-il, il-ba, il-ba, ba-il. Betgil straps on his bast sandals, He sets off to track the deer. In front of him he sees the hoofprints; When he turns around, behind him There are no tracks to be seen. This indeed is Betgil’s fate. They head up onto the black cliff, To the place where Dali reigns. — A pleasant day to Lady Dali! — The sort of day that you will have I will show you straight away! Why did you betray your promise, Where’d you put the beads I gave you? — I left them beneath my pillow. — You left them beneath your pillow, 107

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Why should I let you return? Dali vanished from his sight, Stranding Betgil on the cliff. He held on by his right hand, He held on by his left foot, Poor Betgil, unhappy Betgil! There is no chance I’ll return. Give this message to my friends: May you never forget Betgil. Give this message to my mother: For my soul bake kut and ch’ishdwar To be offered day and night. Give this message to my wife: Don’t replace me with another. Betgil fell down from the cliff. His companions fetched his body.

Today is whose festival? Today is whose festival? St. George’s festival. Where is this banner from? St. George’s shrine. St. George, without his belt, Walked around the wall, On the ground where he had tread A cypress tree came forth. The woman or man who sinned against it Straightway came to ruin.

Samaia Samaia, one of three — Oh, how lovely you are; I was in love with Samaia — Oh, how lovely you are; Liso, Liso, so the wind sings — Lisim dalaleo; The peregrine falcon spreads its wings 109

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— Lisim dalaleo. The line moves up, the line moves down — Oh, how lovely you are; Form a ring, and follow round — Oh, how lovely you are. Liso, Liso, so the wind sings — Lisim dalaleo; The peregrine falcon spreads its wings — Lisim dalaleo.

Funerary Poems
Dead from poison Where are they summoning the mourners? Where are the womenfolk gathering? She did not come on Thursday night; Yesterday evening the moon went down. She has been carried off to heaven, A woman as low as can be. Higher and higher, the cord winding up, Up where the young people are.

Women slaughtered by the plague Women slaughtered by the plague, Didn’t you go to Kvishisa? At Ch’ishvel did you see them all? Weren’t they mowing hay at Ch’ishvel? Didn’t their sickles gleam in the sun? Weren’t they calling out the song?

Woe betide the matchmaker Woe betide the matchmaker Who set up my marriage in Khoshara; I cannot live there anymore . . . I can no longer eat barley bread, I am accustomed to unhulled grain; 111

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I can no longer drink from a cistern, I am accustomed to river water. I will not go with my child to the fields, I will not lash the crib to a bush; For the earth will shake, the string Holding the cradle will snap. Down it will roll, down into the gorge, Leaving me bereft. How long must I be in mourning? How long must I pick up my baby’s flesh? How long must I gather it up in my dress? How long must I set the pieces together? Strike me down with stones, fellow mourners, I have nothing more to tell you.

Love Poems
I am a very young woman I am a very young woman, Don’t make me sad, it’s a sin; They will torment you “over there,” If there is a place where souls live.

Nina woman Nina woman, if there were some way We could lie at each other’s side, Cover ourselves with carpets and furs, And work up a mighty sweat! So I went and lay with you, But it is much too chilly here. I could never enjoy you like this, Why don’t you come inside with me?

VIOLET ON THE MOUNTAIN
I likened it to my sister-spouse’s dress My sheep were standing on Shirak’s crest, The wind was blowing straight back at me, A butterfly came from the land of the souls, Its body bright with splashes of red. It was heading north toward Pshavi, I followed its flight with my eyes; I would have watched it even longer But the wind did not let me. Its color reminded me of her dress, My sister-spouse — O God, save me from this! Go now, and bring her a message: My sheep are doing well.

Day or night Which is better, day or night? People, I am asking you. The night of course is very good But day will outdo night in brightness. It brings light to all the land; When the sun climbs in the sky, The cattle and the sheep spread out; In mountains above and meadows below, It dries up the morning dew, In the cornfield the quail greets it. But yet, if there would be no night, May God save us from such a thing! When the dark of night has come A woman rejoices in her heart. She longs to see her “brother-spouse,” It would be hard to keep her away. The lad as well, full of eagerness, Cannot take time to eat his meal. He goes and readies the bed for her, Lays the sheets, fluffs up the straw. Heart is working its magic on heart; At the same time, he is thinking “Could it be, she will not come, Or that something has gone awry?” 117

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The woman approaches, with quiet steps, She draws not a rustle from the straw. In her hand she carries a bottle Of vodka, taken from her home. The man pretends to be asleep, Toying with his sister-spouse. The woman quickly rouses him; Neither wants to waste much time. The jaw of one meets the other’s jaw, Chest is pushed up against chest. Their relation has long been known, She no longer needs to hide it. Then they begin to kiss each other, Sharing slaver from each other’s mouth. Day or night, which is better? People, I am asking you. Our eyes can see the beauteous land, Day thus outdoes night in kindness. It gives the workers the chance to work, To bring the food their households need. The cattle and the sheep spread out, Grazing on mountain and lowland alike. It brings light to all the world, When the sun ascends the sky It dries up the morning dew, The quail in the field sings a lullaby.

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Notes to the Poems
1. Moq’me da vepkhvi (“The young man and the leopard”). Sources: PKh 132-134; Ko 104-106; Go 5-7; ShKh 208-209; FY 78-79. The variant in PKh was recited by N. Khornauli in 1924, in the Pshavian village K’ats’alkhevi. The version given in Ko and Go was transcribed by Vakh. Razik’ashvili in the Pshavian village Chargali. The text printed here mostly follows the firstmentioned version. This is an extremely popular poem, and almost every Georgian schoolchild can recite it from memory. The motif of a hero proving himself in single combat against a ferocious feline is an important element of the epic poem considered by Georgians to be the finest expression of their virtues and world-view: Shota Rustaveli’s Vepkhist’q’aosani “The knight in the leopard’s skin” (written ca. 1200). The striking conclusion to the poem, in which the mother of the slain warrior goes to commiserate with the leopard’s mother, is the creation of Giorgi Jabushanuri of Arkhot’i, a Khevsur bard active at the turn of the century [see the note in ShKh 559-565]. The idea, however, did not originate with him; several ethnographic accounts refer to the practice of “mourning” a leopard killed by a hunter (vepkhvis dat’ireba), a ritual accompanied by the perkhuli round dance [DGF I, 161]. Among the Khevsurs, the leopard was given a warrior’s funeral, with armor and weapons placed by its body [GOM 31]. The legendary Svan hunter Tabi Goshteliani, as recounted in a poem collected by Elene Virsaladze, killed a leopard that had slain several of his fellow villagers. But instead of rejoicing, Tabi intoned the following lament over the animal’s body: “Rather than kill you, would that I had killed one of my own children! Rather than kill you, would that I had set fire to my home! Rather than kill you, would that I had killed myself!” [GOM 303]. The humanlike status of the leopard is reflected as well in Rustaveli’s epic. One of his principal characters, the hero Tariel, relates how he saw a lion and leopard together. They appeared to be “lovers” (hgvandes ratme moq’varulta), and the sight pleased him. The lion, however, began to quarrel with its companion and put it to flight. Tariel, outraged by this behavior, attacked the lion with drawn sword, and killed it. Going over to the wounded leopard: “I tossed aside my sword, reached over, and took the leopard in my arms. I wished to kiss it, because of her who burns me with hot flames. It roared at me, and hurt me with its blood-shedding claws. I could bear it no longer: my heart enraged, I killed it also.” [VT 908]. In any event, the lion and the leopard are probably the most frequently-evoked animal tropes in Georgian poetry. They are associated with manly prowess, but also can be utilized as symbols of a woman’s strength of character. The one “who burns me with hot flames” is Tariel’s beloved, Nestan-Darejan, whom he likens elsewhere in the poem to a “beautiful leopard” [VT 654; also VT 520]. Two remarks on lexical meaning: (1) Some readers familiar with Georgian literature in translation may wonder why vepkhvi — rendered as “panther” or “tiger” in the English versions of Rustaveli’s epic — is here translated as “leopard.” Georgian scholars as well have held different opinions concerning the original reference of this word, which denotes “tiger” in the modern literary language. I have decided to follow the interpretation offered by a series of experts, from Davit Chubinashvili and Nikolai Marr to Sargis Caishvili and Tamaz Gamq’relidze, that the original vepkhvi was a variety of leopard (Russian bars), a spotted beast weighing up to 300 pounds, known to have prowled the Caucasus mountains as recently as the 1920’s [ShKh 559-565]. (2) The expression “French blade” (pranguli), by which Georgian mountaineers denote an especially fine sword, whatever its origin, probably dates back to medieval times, when Georgians fought alongside Frankish soldiers in the Byzantine army. Akhmet’uri p’at’ardzali (“The bride from Akhmeta”). Sources: Ko 62-5; Go 192-4. Transcribed by Iv. K’akhadze in the Kakhetian village Napareuli. The town of Akhmeta is in the northern part of the province of Kakheti. The humor in this poem, of course, is the mayhem wreaked by the title character on her new husband’s family: the bride from Akhmeta is a Georgian mother-in-law’s worst nightmare. In the Caucasus, newlyweds customarily moved into the husband’s parents’ home, and the new bride, being — in a social sense — an outsider, must accommodate herself to her new situation. While the strictures imposed on the bride are hardly as severe as those obtaining in many countries, she is still expected to defer to her in-laws, especially her mother-in-law (on the position of wives in traditional Caucasian cultures see Louis Luzbetak Marriage and the family in Caucasia [Vienna: St. Gabriel’s Mission Press, 1951], chapters X and XI). On the other hand, it should be

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noted that the Georgian ideal of womanhood, to whom the bride from Akhmeta would be contrasted, is along the lines of Tamar the King (see the notes to poem #22) and not a subservient homemaker. She is proud and strong-willed, with a fiery and vivid personality. As was mentioned above, the image of a leopard is applied in Georgian poetry to women as well as men. The bride from Akhmeta has a leopard’s temperament indeed, but she is a leopard run amok. 3. Dælil k’ojas khelghwazhale (“Dali is giving birth on the cliff”). Source: SvP 268. Transcribed in 1936 in the Upper Svan village of Muzhali (Mulakhi community). The title character is probably the most widely-known personage in Svanetian mythology. In many stories and invocations she is represented as a sort of hunter-goddess, and protector of the wildlife dwelling in the high mountains. Although often referred to in the singular, some texts make mention of a community of Dalis inhabiting the inaccessible peaks and cliffs of the Caucasus, who can aid or destroy a hunter, depending on his behavior (e.g. the poem “The hunter Chorla,” SvP 288-296). Several variants of the poem presented here are found in MP 89-91, 194-208. In one (pp. 201-2), Dali’s child is identified as a girl; the others make no mention of gender. Other Svanetian legends credit her with giving birth to Amiran, the Georgian Prometheus [PC 26, 57, 165-7]. Dali offers to reward Mepsay with animals from her herd, or, if he chooses, to share her bed with him. The latter alternative seems hard to refuse, on the face of it: Dali is frequently described as a woman of ravishing beauty, with long hair and glistening bright skin. Her lovers are assured of superhuman success in the hunt. But they are doomed as well. Dali is jealous, and her favorites are subject to numerous restrictions — in particular, they are barred from consorting with human females [GOM 71]. In every case recorded in Georgian folklore, the hunters taken as lovers by Dali eventually incite her jealousy, with fatal consequences. So what happens to Mepsay? In most variants of the poem Dali accepts the hunter’s refusal to sleep with her with magnanimity, and sends him off with a blessing and a promise of success in hunting. In the version given here, Mepsay’s downfall results directly from his decision to shoot at the gold-horned ibex. It was believed that the goddess herself often took the form of a specially marked animal within the herd she protected, and mountaineers would avoid shooting an animal with unusual coloration. Violation of this taboo, it was thought, would bring disaster upon the hunter [GOM 33, 75]. Lexical note: Throughout the anthology, the word “ibex” translates Georgian jikhvi and Svan ghwæsh, which denote the Caucasian mountain goat (Capris caucasica). Ts’utisopeli (“The fleeting world”). Sources: Ko 25; Go 13-14. The poem was recited by Kh. Merabashvili in the Kartlian village Dighomi. Variant in GMD 137. The compound word ts’uti(s)sopeli (literally “village of a minute”) is used to describe the temporality of earthly existence. This popular poem embodies the Christian notion of “two paths” (toward heaven or toward hell) upon which one can travel in the course of one’s life, as well as the fundamental equality of all humankind. This point is driven home by the assertion that “even the Tatar [Turk or Azerbaidjani] is our brother,” and that “between us and the Armenians” there is no difference in God’s eyes. The poem includes a reference to the pledge of “sisterhood” (doba), that is, a bond of friendship between a woman and a man which, although emotionally fulfilling, must not terminate in marriage. The relationship of ts’ats’loba referred to elsewhere in this book may be thought of as a particularly intense realization of the sister/brotherhood pledge. The assurance that bonding oneself to a woman in this way will give one “a mind pure as the open sky” does not seem to have been enough for at least one anonymous poet. These lines were recorded in Kartli in 1870 [OL 40, #35]: In the month of Mary [August], I caught a fish in high waters; Woman, you are much too beautiful: I can never pledge sisterhood with you. 5. Tavparavneli ch’abuk’i (“The lad from Tavparavani”). Sources: Ko 29; Go 5-7. Transcribed by M. Kh. Merabishvili in the Kartlian village K’avtiskhevi. Variants in LP 147-148, 350-353. The villages Tavparavani and Aspindza are located in southern Georgia. The word “Tavparavani” means “at the head (tav) of Lake Paravani, a large lake in Javakheti (100 km WSW of Tbilisi). According to an

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Armenian legend [cited in Ko 332], this lake was formed from the tears of a woman whose lover died while trying to bring her an “undying fire.” The theme of the poem is well known in European literature, most notably in the Greek legend of Hero and Leander. In that legend, as told by Ovid, it is the sea — and not a jealous woman — that extinguishes the candle guiding Leander across the Hellespont. A closer parallel to our Georgian poem is found in Arnim and Brentano’s collection of German folksongs Des Knaben Wunderhorn [“Die Edelkönigs-Kinder,” II:252]: Es waren zwei Edelkönigs-Kinder, Die beiden die hatten sich lieb, Beisammen konten sie dir nit kommen, Das Wasser war viel zu tief. Ach Liebchen köntest du schwimmen, So schwimme doch her zu mir, Drey Kerzlein wollt ich dir anstecken, Die solten auch leuchten dir. Da saß ein loses Nönnechen, Das that, als wenn es schlief, Es that die Kerzlein aufblasen, Der Jünglein vertrank so tief … The young man wears a silk shirt — a frequently employed trope indicating wealth or nobility — which is dyed red. Evidence from Svan texts implies that in ancient Georgia, red (rather than black) was the color of mourning. (In one of the variants of the poem “Betgil,” a hero about to die tells his wife: ts’ërnid ighapis lachaki “Dye your veil red” [SvP 284]). 6. Nest’an-darejan (“Nestan-Darejan”). Source: Ko 221-222. Recorded by T’er. St’epanishvili, “Iveria” #115, 1886. This and the following poem employ characters that — in name at least — can be linked with Rustaveli’s “The knight in the leopard’s skin.” Rustaveli’s Nestan-Darejan is a princess who has been kidnapped by the Kajes, a people with superhuman powers. Her distraught fiance Tariel (the leopard-skin-wearing knight in the title) is befriended by the warriors Avtandil and Pridon; after various adventures they succeed in rescuing the princess. While in captivity NestanDarejan does in fact write a number of letters, but aside from that superficial resemblance there is no other connection between her story and that of her namesake in this poem. Avtandil gadinadira (“Avtandil went a-hunting”). Sources: Ko 116-117; Go 10-12. Recited by G. Khut’ashvili in the Kartlian village Nichbisi. Musical settings: GFS (Kakhetian; three voices, 4/4 meter); MFS #23 (three variants, all homophonic, in 4/4 or 7/4 meter; sung as accompaniment to dance). This is another of the many verses, stories, and songs from all parts of Georgia which feature characters from “The knight in the leopard’s skin.” The beginning of this poem bears a slight resemblance to the scene preceding Avtandil’s discovery of the cave where Tariel and Asmat live: “Though Avtandil was become wild with heart-groaning and sighing, yet he wished to eat, after the wont of Adam’s race; he killed game with his arrow, with arm longer than Rostom’s [a Persian hero — KT]. He alighted on the edge of the reedy ground and kindled a fire with a steel. “He let his horse pasture while he roasted the meat. He saw six horseman coming towards him. He said, ‘They look like brigands; else what good is to be found? No other human being has ever been here.’” [VT 192193 (Wardrop’s trans.)] As it turns out, these men are hunters, who describe to Avtandil their unexpected encounter with Tariel: “Suddenly there appeared a knight, morose and gloomy of visage, seated on a black horse, black as Pegasus” [VT 201 (Wardrop’s trans.)]. The youngest of them challenges Tariel, but is struck down, his head cleft open. The poem we have here may represent a reworking (or garbling) of this material, with Tariel recast as the black knight who wounds Avtandil. The ending is similar to those of other folk poems concerning warriors killed in battle: the giving of instructions to one’s mother and other relations to insure that one’s death is properly mourned (compare, for example, poem #15 Lekso, amogtkom “Poem, I will declaim you”).

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8. A, is ghrubelni miq’varan (“Ah, how I love those clouds”). Sources: LP 132; Ko 31; Go 19. Recorded by Tedo Razik’ashvili in the province Pshavi, ca. 1910. Mount Borbalo (or Borbala) is a 3300 meter mountain at the head of the Alazani and Iori rivers, about 80 km north of Tbilisi. The poem’s meaning hinges on a play on words: The word manana is used in the sixth line (mananas chamaq’riano) to denote a fine summer drizzle. It is also a common female given name, and this sets up the interpretation of the “us” of the final line as “(my girlfriend) Manana and me.” Ts’itel ghvinos migagvane (“I’ve likened you to red wine”). Sources: Ko 34; Go 25. Recited by S. Gachechiladze in the Imeretian village Shorap’ani. Variants in LP 46, 163-164. Ts’q’alsa mohkonda napot’i (“The stream bore me a wood chip”). Source: LP 149. Recited by Gvaramadze in the Meskhetian village Khizabavra in 1884. Longer variant in Ko 37; Go 19-20. Musical settings: GFS (three voices, 4/4 meter); HGF #77 (Kartlian-Kakhetian; solo with three-voice choir, in 4/4 meter). Throughout most of its recorded history, Georgia has either been under foreign domination, and struggling to free itself; or independent, and fighting to maintain its freedom. Times of peace have been few and far between. These circumstances have given rise to a series of songs detailing the attempts of women to receive word concerning their menfolk gone off to war. Invariably the news they receive is bad. The best known example of this genre is the song Gaprindi shavo mertskhalo, one of the jewels of Georgian polyphonic folk music. (“Fly away, black swallow, follow the course of the Alazani; Bring back news of my brother who has gone off to war”). The theme of the floating wood chip as a bearer of news about an absent lover is also employed in the tale of Tristan and Iseult [Ko 345]. Shens loq’as vardi hq’vaoda (“A rose blossomed upon your cheek”). Sources: LP 50-51, Ko 42; Go 25-26. This poem, from the Kartlian village Ertats’minda was recorded by I. K’argareteli, ca. 1913. Variant in LP 176. The inventory of feminine beauty given here makes use of a lexicon of similes common to most Georgian love poems. Some of these expressions can also describe masculine beauty (for example in “The knight in the leopard’s skin”: Tariel and Avtandil’s lightshedding teeth [VT 279], Avtandil’s eyelashes of jet [VT 1250]). The women whom the addressee of the poem outshines are: Tamar (see poem #22); (?) Queen Ketevan, mother of King Teimuraz I and a martyr for the Christian faith (17th century); and the legendary beauty Eteri, a shepherdess whose ill-starred relationship with a prince (Abesalom) is the topic of a well-known poem . Rad ginda kali lamazi (“Why do you want a beautiful woman?). Sources: Ko 42; Go 28. Transcribed by Mikh. K’avsadze. This song is from eastern Georgia (Kartli and Kakheti), and is performed as follows: The soloist declaims, in a sort of recitative, a line of the poem, in alternation with the chorus (which sings the nonsense syllables “He-e-e va-ra-lo”). As the song progresses, the tempo becomes faster and faster [Ko 352] . Mtieli (“The mountaineer”). Source: Go 57. Recorded in the province of Khevi. Q’azbeg is a celebrated 5000-meter mountain in Khevi, along the Georgian Military Highway. The mountain Q’uro forms part of the border between Khevi and the North Caucasian province of Kist’eti. The sentiments expressed in this poem are echoed in a variety of poems and stories written by patriotic mountaineers, such as the following lines by the poet and ethnographer Raphael Eristavi: I prefer the black cliff, Covered with snow and ice, Where the hawk nests, and where The crystalline waterfall thunders: Where ibex and chamois abound; Their salty meat suits me just fine. I would not trade these sheer cliffs For the tree of eternal life; I would not trade my homeland For another land’s paradise!

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14. Khidistavs shavk’rat p’iroba (“At Khidistav we’ll make a pact”). Sources: Ko 60; Go 67. Recorded in the Kakhetian village Shashiani. Variant in LP 149 #612. Khidistav (lit. “bridge-head”) is a village near Gori in central Kartli. The Mukhran-Bat’onebi (“Lords of Mukhran”) were a branch of the Georgian royal family, the Bagrations. They took their name from the seat of their domain: Mukhran, a village on the Ksani river about 30 km NW of Tbilisi. They reached the zenith of their power during the period from 1650 to 1722, when they ruled all of eastern Georgia and had great influence at the Persian court in Isfahan [see HGP pp 174-180]. Sagarejo, where the three raiders marry their beautiful captives, is in western Kakheti, about 50 km east of Tbilisi. The rest of the poem is readily interpretable, though one detects echoes of the Mzekala (“Sun-woman”) legend in the description of the woman liberated from the Mukhran-Bat’oni’s court. The detail of earrings jingling in the wind also occurs in “The woman Khwaramze” (poem #32). The seating of the captive, disguised as a man, on an Arabian horse — which seems unmotivated in our poem — resembles an episode in the folktale “Mzekala and Mzevarda” [GNS 331-338] in which Sun-woman, in order to escape from her undesirable husband, dressed herself as a man, folded up her hair inside a cap, and rode off on her faithful horse Mzevarda (“Sun-rose”). Finally, the rather violent kissing to which the women in “Khidistavi” are subjected by their captors (loq’as avadzrot t’q’avi “let us peel off the hide from their cheeks”) echoes a phrase in “Lurjasi,” which is also a Sun-woman tale in K’ot’et’ishvili’s opinion. A talking horse instructs its female rider: “Mount me, hit me with the whip three times, so that three pieces of my hide come off” (sami p’iri t’q’avi amdzvres) [cited by Ko 357] . Lekso, amogtkom (“Poem, I will declaim you”). Sources: Ko 21; Go 77-78; IWRP 200. Composed by the Pshavian Mikha Khelashvili; transcribed by V. Khornauli in the Pshavian village K’ats’alkhevi. This poem expresses with especial clarity the particular intensity of a mother’s love for her children, a notion finding expression in almost every corner of Georgian linguistic culture. Looking in the dictionary under the word deda “mother,” one finds, in addition to familiar idioms such as “mother tongue” and “mother earth,” the expressions deda-azri “mother idea,” a key or fundamental principle; deda-bodzi “mother pillar,” the column supporting the roof in a traditional Georgian house; deda-kalaki “mother city,” the capital of a country. According to traditional belief, each village, stream, valley and forest was under the protection of a local spirit known as adgilisdeda, “place-mother” (see poem #31). By contrast, mama “father” is almost never used in a metaphoric sense. All of this gives one the impression that deep in the Georgian national consciousness motherhood is linked with the notion of support, of being the center and base, of nurturing and protecting. It should not be seen as unusual, then, that the dying Avtandil dispatches a carrier pigeon to his mother, not his father or wife (poem #7). The young warrior in the poem expresses the hope that his name will be remembered each time the ballad he left behind is sung. It is a sadly ironic fact that the powers that ruled over Georgia for many years would not allow this wish to be honored. Mikha Khelashvili, born in 1900 in the Pshavian village Akhadi, participated in the anti-Communist revolt led by Kakutsa Choloq’ashvili in 1924. After the uprising was crushed by the Soviet Georgian government, Khelashvili went into hiding in the mountains. In January of 1925 the young poet was betrayed and killed. Until recently his name could not be mentioned in print, even though some of the poems he composed were widely anthologized (biographical information provided by Z. K’ik’nadze). T’ialo ts’utisopelo (“Oh wretched, fleeting world”). Source: IWRP 204. Composed by the Pshavian poet Bat’ark’ats Bekauri. Folk poetry is still a living tradition in Georgia, and many mountaineers continue to compose poetry within the tradition of their ancestors. Vakhusht’i K’ot’et’ishvili included a dozen recently composed poems in his anthology of folk poetry, including this one. The poet declares that he has eaten up his life “like a khink’ali.” This is one of the staples of Pshavian cuisine: spiced meat encased in a bag of dough, then boiled or fried. (One can easily put away a dozen or more at a sitting, washed down with beer). Old age has bent him over like a k’irk’ali, a curved piece of wood, especially one fashioned as a rocker for a cradle.

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17. Iavnana (“Lullaby”). Sources: Ko 26; Go 79-81. Recited in the Kartlian village K’arbi by Ek’. Bidzinashvili. Musical settings: GFS (two variants for women’s chorus, both in 3/8 meter); HGF #2 (solo and two-voice chorus, in 4/4 meter, accompanied by the panduri, a three-stringed lute). The women’s vocal ensemble Mzetamze has recorded no fewer than ten variants of the Iavnana on their first two CDs. In its basic form this lullaby comprised the melody, rhythmic pattern, refrain, and certain of the verses; the rest was improvised on the spot. The two flowers, violet and rose, frequently appear together in Georgian folk literature. In “The knight in the leopard’s skin” they are symbols of happiness and fulfillment (sometimes opposed to the saffron, a sign of sorrow). Only once are the two flowers mentioned with contrastive senses: ornive mikhvdet ts’adilsa, igi vardobdes, shen ie “May you both attain your desire; may he [Tariel] be a rose and thou [NestanDarejan] a violet” [VT 1267, Wardrop’s translation]. K’ot’et’ishvili notes that in a certain folk tale [cited in Ko 324], the violet is associated with the “queen of the underworld,” and the rose with its king. In both cases, the violet is linked with a woman and the rose with a man. The Western reader would never imagine that this charming lullaby, with its sumptuous images of satin, gold, and rubies, was addressed to the supernatural beings that the traditional Caucasians dreaded more than any others. The word “lords” (bat’onebi) is a euphemism for those contagious diseases, measles and smallpox, which until recently exacted a horrible toll of death and disfigurement among the children of the Caucasus. As portrayed by the Svans of a century ago, “Smallpox and Measles are brothers. They have a mother who lives atop a high cliff by the sea shore … In the center of their home stands a pillar encrusted with human eyes. [The mother said:] ‘My child Smallpox brings all of the eyes he has ruined, and we fasten them to this pillar.’” [HEE I, 147-148]. The “lords” strike where they will, and can only be warded off by being persuading, in the most deferential terms, to leave. The Ossetians, an Indo-Iranian people of the central Caucasus, would put on great month-long feasts to appease the spirit of smallpox [MIE 48-60], and among the Georgians not so long ago the Iavnana was sung as part of a ritual for curing sick children. A detailed description of this practice is given in the story Bat’onebma ar daits’unes, “The lords were not displeased,” by the 19th-century writer Anastasia Eristav-Khosht’aria, from which I quote this excerpt: “A chair covered with a red cloth was placed before the sick children. On the cloth were little pastries, sweets, cloth scraps in various colors, dolls, flags, red-dyed eggs, and so forth. This was a banquet set for the lords. In a low voice Melana recited the Iavnana to the children: The violet and the rose, nana, O violet, naninao, O you lords, o you merciful ones, O violet, naninao, I pluck a violet, I spread out a rose, O violet, naninao, Bring relief to our little ones, O violet, naninao! “Melana rose to her feet and circled around them, dancing and waving her hands (khelebis k’vants’it chamouara): The lords are out in the garden, O violet, naninao, A white mulberry is bearing fruit, O violet, naninao, I was in a grove of trees, O violet, naninao, The aspen tree wrapped around an aspen, O violet, naninao, We came here from the white sea O violet, naninao, Seven brothers and seven sisters,

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O violet, naninao! You spread out to seven towns, O violet, naninao, We’ll pitch our tents in seven towns, O violet, naninao, As your arrival has made us glad May your parting do likewise, Nana, nana, to the lords, O violet, naninao! “Melana finished dancing, sat down by the children and said: ‘Lords, may the path before you bring happiness, and in the same measure may you bring relief to my little Ila, Pepa, and Daro, do not deprive them of comfort!’” [cited in Ko 326-327; my translation]. K’ot’et’ishvili draws a parallel between the “seven lordly brothers and sisters” of the Iavnana and the “seven evil spirits” which, in ancient Babylonian belief, brought illness and other misfortunes [Ko 325-326; cp. Volkert Haas, Magie und Mythen in Babylonien: von Dämonen, Hexen und Beschwörungspriestern (Lüneburg: Merlin, 1986), pp. 133-138]. The departure of the seven brothers and sisters would be interpreted as the hoped-for departure of the cause of illness. 18. Iambe, tsikhis nashalo (“Speak, o fortress ruins”). Sources: Ko 100; Go 106-7. Recorded in Khevsureti by Tamar Mach’avariani. Another Khevsur variant was collected by Tedoradze (FY 201). The variant in PKh 74-75, recorded in 1931 in the village Biso, is essentially identical for the first 18 lines. The description of battle that follows, however, contains no mention of the tree-felling incident. The fortress in the title is believed to have stood in the village Barisakho, along the Aragvi River in southern Khevsureti. Alongside it, according to legend, stood a tree of special significance. The text given here specifies a cypress (alvis-khe), often employed in poetry as a symbol of beauty. Other versions mention an oak tree, by means of which the highly elliptical account of Alshaureli and the cat can be linked with the tale of the cutting down of an ancient sacred oak (bermukha), variants of which have been collected throughout the mountainous districts of northeast Georgia [DGF I, 74]. The best-known and best-studied version is that of the sacred oak of Qhmelgora, in Pshavi [see M. Chikovani “Demetres ts’minda mukha” (Demetrius’ sacred oak) in QGG 47-50 and the discussion in SR 659-678]. The story of the oak of Qhmelgora associates elements of Georgian mythology with the history of the Georgian nobleman Zurab Eristavi [1591-1629; eristavi is a title roughly corresponding to “Duke”]. Zurab led an army into the mountainous region along the Aragvi River north of Tbilisi, in an attempt to subjugate the local population, which has rarely submitted to the rule of lowland authorities. The desperate skirmishes fought by the mountaineers against Zurab’s army have provided material for an enormous number of Pshavian and Khevsur poems. The oak tree of Qhmelgora was consecrated to the deity Lashari, an important figure in the pre-Christian Georgian pantheon (more about him in the notes to poem #55). It was linked to heaven by a golden chain, upon which its guardian spirit moved up and down. As long as the oak stood, the shrine of Lashari and the community of mountaineers in the vicinity remained invincible. Zurab’s invasion was stymied outside of Qhmelgora, until a local villager betrayed the secret of the sacred oak. It could be chopped down only if one killed a cat and spilled its blood on the tree. (Cats and dogs were regarded as unclean by the Pshavs and Khevsurs; threatening to sacrifice the blood of a cat or dog over the graves of an enemy’s ancestors is an extremely serious threat [CD 55]). To avoid pollution by the cat’s blood, the golden chain retracted upward to heaven, the now-defenseless oak was cut down, and the Pshavians were defeated in battle . Vazhk’atsis sik’vdili (“A man’s death”). Sources: Ko 292; Go 78. Recorded in the Tianetian village Didi Toneti by V. Ghonghadze. The Georgians had no equivalent of Valhalla with which to reward their slain warriors. The dead, with some exceptions, dined together in the “land of souls,” usually described as a dreary shadow-world (see poem #36 and the accompanying notes). In the following excerpt from a ballad collected in the mountains north of Tbilisi in 1913 [GMD 167], those

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mourning the deceased hero Jabana are comforted with the thought that a bit of sunlight will follow him to the banquet in the underworld: His womenfolk were weeping, their faces bathed in tears. Do not weep for him, womenfolk: Jabana will not fare badly. Jabana went down to the land of souls, a ray of sunshine followed him; There he found the feasting-table spread with food and wine. 20. Bzha dia chkimi (“The sun is my mother”). Source: MP 81. Recorded in Mingrelia by K’. Tatarishvili, ca. 1910. Note that, pace Francis of Assisi and his “Brother Sun and Sister Moon”, Georgian folklore identifies the sun as female and the moon as male. The pattern recurs in poem #32, “The woman Khwaramze.” Aguna (“Aguna”). Source: MP 113. Recorded in Ach’ara by T. Sakhok’ia in 1898. Aguna is the Georgian Bacchus, the deity of viticulture. His cult is observed throughout the grape-growing regions of West Georgia. This poem is to be recited in the vineyards or wine cellar on the first or second day of the new year. The accompanying rituals vary from one locality to another. In Guria, the family’s first guest of the year brings bread and the head of the pig served at the New Year’s dinner out to the vineyard. While striking the pig’s head with a stick, he intones the poem to Aguna [DGF I, 22]. In the province of Lechkhumi, the elder of the household calls on Aguna while pouring wine onto the base of a grapevine [MP 265]. Bakhvi and Ask’ana (second line) are neighboring villages in southern Guria, near the province of Achara . Tamar dedopal viq’av (“I was Tamar the Queen”). Sources: Ko 144; Go 135. Variants: Ko 257258; PKh 61, RFl 259-267. Songs and legends about Tamar, who ruled from 1184-1218, abound in all parts of Georgia. It is not difficult to understand why. The reign of the woman the chroniclers called Tamar Mepe (“Tamar the King”) saw the culmination of her nation’s Golden Era. The Georgian crown exercised authority over a territory reaching from Samsun to Baku and south to the Araks River, including much of the North Caucasus, Armenia, Azerbaijan, and Turkey. Tamar’s subjects may have numbered ten million or more. “The knight in the leopard’s skin,” considered by Georgians to be the finest work ever written in their language, was composed in her honor. Within two decades after Tamar’s death, Mongol armies were sweeping through eastern Georgia, and so began a long period of decline and foreign occupation, leading up to the annexation of Georgia by the Russian Empire in 1801. While the exploits of Tamar the King, coupled with an understandable nostalgia for the cultural and political glories of her time, are sufficient to guarantee her a special place in the hearts of her people, there is another factor as well. The Tamar of folklore has the attributes of a deity, probably the result of an amalgamation of the historical Tamar and a preChristian celestial goddess [see SR 679-700]. The poem is in the form of an epitaph, in which the deceased monarch summarizes her achievements (no actual epitaph has come down to us, and Tamar’s grave has never been found). In addition to collecting tribute from human cities, she is credited with the conquest of the “Kajes,” a race of demons with magical powers frequently mentioned in Georgian folklore. Tamar is believed to have ordered the building of churches and castles throughout Georgia, and in every part of the country stand ancient edifices which, according to the local population, were built at her command. Many of these shrines and towers are located atop steep ridges. According to an account recorded in the province of Kartli, “at Tamar’s command the swallows brought sand and the cranes brought stones, and in this way she erected churches, monasteries, and fortresses on inaccessible mountains and cliffs” [Ko 375]. Numerous variants of this “epitaph” have been collected throughout Georgia [see RFl 259-267]. In some, Tamar is credited with the construction of particular churches (for example, the cathedrals of Ubisi and Manglisi, which in fact were built long before her time), and the list of cities she is said to have subjugated varies somewhat. Almost all versions mention her placing of boundary markers in the sea and drawing the dry land toward her (placing the land and sea under her dominion), and conclude with the lines “I, who accomplished such deeds, took nought but a nine-yard cloth” [that is, I took nothing nothing with me into the grave save my burial shroud]. Two versions specify that she drew her last

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breath at Vardzia, a city built into the cliff overlooking the Mt’k’vari (Kura) River near the Turkish border. 23. Omi gumbrzed (“The Battle of Gumbri”). Source: ShKh 178-179; Go 114-115. Recited by Nadira Arabuli in the Khevsur village Chirdili in 1911. The fortress of Gumbri is in central-southern Georgia. According to Shanidze, the battle described here took place during the Russo-Turkish wars of 1877-78. The expression “Cross of Blood” (siskhlis jvari) refers to an honorable death in battle. Oy Jgëræg-ieha, loygwi-i-she-e-da (“Oy Jgëræg, stand by us”). Source: SvP 312. Svanetian hymn recorded by Ak’ak’i Shanidze in 1932. The use of nonsense syllables is rather common in Georgian songs, especially in refrains (rather like the fa-la-la-la ’s and hey-diddle-diddle ’s of English folk tunes). In the province of Svaneti, where the style of singing and the harmonic structure of the songs are markedly different from what is found elsewhere in Georgia, a number of hymns, laments, and dance tunes have “texts” that are largely or entirely uninterpretable. There are, in fact, two types of such texts. In the first type, of which this song is a typical case, a small number of simple, open syllables is employed (other examples in SvP 266-7). For a song of the second type, see #25. Ak’alæ-æd, mak’alæ-æd ([Svanetian nonsense song]). Source: SvP 356. Recited by Khabji Chkhet’iani in the Upper Svan village of Lenjer, ca. 1939. As can be easily seen, the nonsense syllables in this song have a more complex phonological structure, resembling actual words. Mixed in with the completely uninterpretable sounds are Svan sentences and phrases (for example tsæ:nisha dæshwd “the bear of Tsena,” from a humorous song about the misadventures of a bear wandering from one Svanetian village to another). There are also a few classical Georgian words (k’iri k’irsa, ch’iri ch’irsa “lime on (to?) lime, want on want”). More-or-less mangled fragments of classical Georgian, the language of the Orthodox liturgy, are particularly common in Svanetian prayers and spells. Nonsense lyrics of differing degrees of wordlikeness have also been noted in the songs of the Havasupai Indians of the southwestern United States; see Leanne Hinton Havasupai song [Tubingen: Gunter Narr, 1982] . Ochop’int’ra (“Ochopintra”). Source: MP 107-8. Recited by G. Lobzhanidze in the Rachan village Ghebi. Georgian hunters traditionally believed that the wild animals they killed for food and fur were under the protection of a divinity, who insured that only those hunters who maintained themselves in a state of rectitude and observed the taboos would be allowed to take their prey. The Svans, as we have seen, represented their deity of the hunt as a woman (Dali). By contrast, Georgians of the eastern provinces (Khevsureti, Kakheti) and of the upland districts of Racha invoked a male figure, Ochopintra, for success in hunting [see MP 247-8]. Interestingly, the Circassians of the North Caucasus are likewise of divided opinion concerning the gender of their hunter deity, Mezythe: S/he is female for the East Circassian Kabardians, but male for the West Circassians [GOM 43, 108-9; PC 171 note 1]. Before setting out, the mountaineer hunter will ask Ochopintra to spare an ibex from his herd. If he succeeds in killing one, he pauses to give thanks to the deity. If the hunter should kill too many animals, however, he risks incurring Ochopintra’s wrath. (Dali likewise was believed to punish those who overkilled). Gonja modga k’arebsao (“Gonja came to the door”). Source: MP 111. The poem was recorded by N. Bregadze in the Rachan village Ts’edisi in 1964. A variant is sung by the ensemble Mzetamze on their first CD. The figure of Gonja was invoked during times of drought in western Georgia (Imereti, Lechkhumi, Racha). The poem was chanted while a ritual such as the following, which was observed in Lower Racha, took place: A group of young men from the village chose one of their number to play the part of “Gonja.” This man stripped down to the waist, and was smeared with lampblack. Holding a long, thorny branch in his hand, he and his companions went from door to door, singing this song [MP 259]. The eastern Georgian equivalent is called “Lazaroba,” during which young women go about the village barefoot and call upon a personage named “Lazare” to bring rain [DGF I, 224-5].

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28. Tsangala da gogona (“The mandolin and the girl”). Sources: Ko 85; Go 159. The poem was recited by M. Biminashvili in the Kartlian village K’arbi. Musical setting: GFS (Kakhetian; three-voice chorus, in 2/4 meter). The tsangala is a plucked stringed instrument, similar to the Georgian chonguri, a type of four-stringed lute. In the song, the tsangala itself is represented as speaking, complaining about ill treatment and being blamed when a dancer makes a mistake . Vazhis nat’vra (“A young man’s wish”). Sources: Ko 136; Go 157. Recorded by T. Razik’ashvili in the province of Kartli. Variants: LP 70-1, 216-17. Me var Qhel-Samdzimari (“I am Qhel-Samdzimari”). Source: MP 105, 107. The first section was recited by Jukha Gogoch’uri in the Khevsur village Buchuk’urta in 1964; the second part was recorded by T. Ochiauri in the Khevsur village Shat’ili. Qhel-Samdzimari (or simply Samdzimari, Samdzivari) was one of three women said to have been brought back by the deity St. George after his military expedition in Kajeti, a land inhabited by metal-working demons with wondrous powers. Her name derives from the beads and bangles (mdzivi) with which she adorns herself. Among her magical powers is the capability of changing her shape, so that she appears to mortals in the guise of a human female. While sojourning upon the earth, she becomes the object of desire of various semilegendary priests and oracles. Their cohabitation with the deity Samdzimari symbolizes their powers of communication with the gods [SR 570]. The Khevsur Kholiga Abuletauri, according to one account, was not given permission to marry by the powerful deity Qhaqhmat’i. He was to live as a monk (beri) in the service of Qhaqhmat’i’s shrine. One day, Samdzimari came to Kholiga at the shrine in human form, and consented to live with him as his wife [MP 246-7]. Her divine nature was not discovered until one day her mother-in-law saw her magically fashioning a golden ring in a pot of molten butter. Samdzimari then resumed her true form and flew off [SR 569, 577]. Khevsur hunters have been known to invoke Samdzimari’s name in praying for luck in hunting, and, if successful, to offer the horns of a deer or ibex at her shrine in gratitude. This fact, combined with the legends concerning Samdzimari’s amorous affairs with mortals, has led the folklorist M. Chikovani to consider her, and not Ochopintra (poem #26), the original northeast Georgian counterpart to the Svanetian goddess Dali [MP pp 243-8]. According to the poem she gathers ch’ima, the name of a local variety of chervil [Chaerophyllum caucasicum] and lakht’ara, an herb similar to wood sorrel (GMD 349). Charachidzé notes that the Khevsurs prepare an “extremely nourishing” dish from the leaves of the ch’ima, which only women are allowed to eat [SR 579-80, 613-14] . Adgilis-dedao (“Place-mother”). Source: MP #103, p 140. Recorded by A. Ch’inch’arauli in Khevsureti in 1939. In traditional times the Georgians believed, in the words of the poet and ethnographer Vazha-Pshavela, “that each place — mountain, hill, ravine — has a mother, which they call the ‘place-mother.’ A hunter camping in the mountains or in a ravine will commend himself to the local place-mother: ‘Mother of this place, I entrust myself to you; grant me your favor and bounty.’” (Collected works vol V, p. 11). The cult of the place-mother has been closely associated with that of the Virgin Mary (note that the place-mother is addressed as “mother of God” in our poem). One common feature of rituals in honor of either the place-mother or Mary is the offering, typically in springtime, of small cakes, and the smearing of butter on the shrine, a small tower of stones. The participants in the ritual are women and children. The place-mother is asked to provide bounty to the household, especially in dairy products and grains (MP 352-3; DGF I, 23; Natia Jalabadze “Adgilis dedastan dak’avshirebuli zogierti rit’ualis shesakheb” [Concerning some rituals associated with the Place-mother] Ist’oriul-Etnograpiuli Sht’udiebi II, 1985). The place-mother may also function as a portent of doom, as in the following quatrain [cited in ShKh 569] entitled Adgilisdeda chioda (“The place-mother moaned”): The place-mother moaned, The village elder’s dying, Do not kill him, Lord Creator, We too will be ruined.

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32. Kali khwaramze (“The woman Khwaramze”). Sources: Go 17-18; Ko 69-70; variant in PKh 87-88. Recorded in Pshavi by Tedo Razik’ashvili. The word khwaramze appears to be a compound of the Persian and Georgian words for “sun” (Persian hwara + Georgian mze), and indeed this poem can be linked with the Mzekala (“Sun-woman”) cycle of Georgian mythological texts. K’ot’et’ishvili offers the following interpretation: Khwaramze is the rising sun. The “foolish young man” is her consort, the moon. (Although this identification is not always strictly maintained, in Georgian folklore the sun is female, and the moon male). The moon takes a sword to his own head, and so he usually appears in the sky with less than a full head. A Lithuanian legend noted by K’ot’et’ishvili contains a similar account: Husband Moon cheats on his wife, the Sun, and makes love to Aushrine, the Morning Star. On finding this out the Sun unsheathes her sword and splits her husband’s head in twain [Ko 357-358]. Khwaramze saddles her horse and rides off. For this mighty steed, “the roads of Trialeti (the southern part of Kartli, west of Tbilisi) are not enough to run on, the great Algeti mountains (just west of Tbilisi) are not enough to graze on,” etc. The horse also has a phenomenal thirst. Not satisfied with the Alazani (the major river in eastern Kakheti) and Kura (Georgian Mt’k’vari, the chief river of northern Transcaucasia), it drank up the “Gumbri waters” (presumably one of several lakes near the Georgian-Armenian border) until the cinch binding its saddle burst. We note, first of all, that Sun-woman is frequently accompanied by a horse of prodigious abilities. A good example is the horse Mzevarda, “Sun-rose,” in the folk tale “Mzekala and Mzevarda” [GNS 331-338]. Among other things, this remarkable animal can talk, hunt, build a shelter, and traverse large distances in the wink of an eye to save its mistress, Sun-woman, from harm. As for the horse’s thirst, this may be the remnant of a just-so story accounting for the drying up of creeks and ponds during hot sunny weather. Monadire zovis kvesh (“A hunter trapped under a snowslide”). Source: PKh 139. Narrated by Ch’reli K’och’lishvili in 1945 in the Pshavian village Udzilaurta. Variants in GMD 129, 162. Avalanches are by no means a rare occurrence in the Caucasus mountains. As recently as the winter of 1986-87, several entire villages in the province of Svaneti were destroyed by snowslides, and dozens of people lost their lives. In this poem, a hunter manages to survive beneath the snow, using his bow for firewood, and eating a bear “skin and all.” As one would expect of people engaged in an activity where luck plays an important role, Georgian hunters were extremely superstitious. In eating the bear whole, our hunter would have violated any of a number of rules governing the skinning and cutting-up of the corpse, the offering of certain portions to the deity who “allowed” the hunter’s arrow to hit the mark, etc. The consequences could be anything from poor luck in hunting to death (see the notes to #56, “Betgil”). One also notes some correspondences with the legend of the hunter Ivane of Kvartsikhe, who was stranded on a mountain. To avoid starvation, he makes a fire with his bow and arrows, and roasts his faithful dog Q’ursha, after which he exclaims “This is why I have been cursed” [PC 146-147]. Three months later the snow melts, freeing the hunter from his icy prison. But in his village, everyone assumes he has died. His own mother does not recognize him, and his wife is getting married to someone else. The black humor in these lines can be better understood by comparing them to what was said above (notes to poem #15) about the special quality of a mother’s love for her children. Compare also poems #7 and #56, in which the doomed protagonists specifically request that their wives not remarry too soon, presumably so that they will be available to mourn and offer sacrifices for the well-being of their late husbands’ souls in the afterlife. On discovering just how little impact his “death” has had on his loved ones, our poor hunter decides that maybe saikio (literally, “the place over there”) would not be so bad after all. At least he can get drunk over there (this may be an oblique reference to the libations of wine offered to the souls of departed relatives at Georgian feasts). Mzeo, mzeo, amodi (“Sun, sun, come up”). Source: MP 79. Recorded by P’. Umik’ashvili in Imereti, ca. 1900. This song was performed (sometimes accompanied by round-dancing) in the cold days of early spring, when the sun is hidden behind clouds. In some variants a goat is offered instead of a sheep [MP 168-69] .

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35. Mze shina da mze gareta (“Sun inside and sun outside”). Source: MP 80-81. Recorded by Sev. Gachechiladze in Imereti. Musical setting: MFS #43 (monophonic lullaby, in 6/8 meter). This is one of the best known Georgian folksongs, and numerous versions have been collected and published [notes and variants in MP 170-6]. Most variants, unlike the one printed in this anthology, celebrate the birth of a male child: Sun inside and sun outside, The rooster has already crowed, Rise if you will rise at all, The sun lay down and bore the moon, A baby boy has been born to us, Our enemy thinks it is a girl, The boy’s father is not at home, He has gone to town to get a cradle, etc. etc. [Ko 25-6] O Sun come on inside! O Sun come on inside! “ “ “ “ “ “ “ “ “ “ “ “

In Chikovani’s opinion [MP 171-2; see also DGF II, 25], this poem was originally a hymn to the sun-goddess, later reworked as either a lullaby or a spinning song, as in the version given here . 36. Suletis leksi (“The land of souls”). Source: Ko 289-90; variant in MT 189-90. Recited by S. Tsisk’arashvili in the Tushetian village Alaznis Tavi. The traditional Georgian belief concerning the afterlife is not greatly different from that of the Greeks of Homer’s time. Suleti, “the land of souls,” is a dank, cheerless place, illuminated by a dim light, similar to the last rays of the sun at dusk, called “the sun of the dead” (mk’wdris mze). Entering souls must pass over a giant cauldron of boiling water on a tightrope made of hair. The souls of sinful persons are heavier, and thus more likely to fall into the cauldron [CD 58-62; DGF 94; note the similarity to the Chinwad bridge of ancient Iranian religion, which widens or narrows depending on the sinfulness of the soul entering the afterlife]. The souls of the deceased retain many of the characteristics they had at the time of death (age and infirmity, for example), but at the same time are shadows of their former selves. They speak, if at all, very softly. A large banquet is spread before them, but they do not actually eat the food, merely gaze at it. Nonetheless food and drink are essential for the souls’ well-being, and it can be supplied only through sacrifices and libations made by their living relatives. Souls that are not provided for in this way cannot participate in the banquet, and must “sit with their backs toward the table.” Mirangula (“Mirangula”). Source: SvP 6-13; variant in SbMat XVIII. Narrated by Giorgi Kharziani in 1927 in the Upper Svan village K’ala. Transcribed by V. Topuria. Musical setting: HGF #34 (three-voice male chorus accompanied by the harp (changi) and viol (ch’uniri), in 4/4 meter). Mirangula has been kept by his mother in the defense tower (murq’wam) that adjoins almost every Upper Svan homestead. The variant in SbMat states that he was keeping watch, while the later text in SvP says that his mother “spoiled” him (naunkholosh khordæs) by making him stay there. Whatever the case may be, Mirangula leaves the tower to go on a raid in Balkaria (in Svan, Malq’ar), the province on the other (north) side of the main ridge of the Caucasus. He crosses the pass on Machkhpar (“waterfall”) Mountain, which links Ushgul, the easternmost and uppermost Svan village, with Balkaria. Mirangula kills a herdsman and captures his oxen. He is pursued by the “Savs” (sævær), a Svan corruption of a word meaning “Ossetian,” but which is applied indiscriminately to Balkarians and other North Caucasians. The North Caucasians are nominally Muslims, and the Svans, like most other Georgians, are nominally Orthodox Christian. After he shoots a party of men, a group of Sav women comes after him. Mirangula finds them offensive. In the SbMat variant he terms them “unclean and unbelievers”; in the version translated here he specifies that they do not wear the lachæk, the wimple-like headdress traditionally worn by Georgian women, nor underwear (arshwil). This latter remark probably reflects the special fear male that Caucasian mountaineers have of being “contaminated” by menstrual blood [ONS 140]. A certain Sav named Vezden heads off Mirangula at the pass and guns him down (literally, “rolls him over”

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with a bullet). The code of blood-price and vendetta was very much alive in Svaneti until recent times, and the dying Mirangula’s principal fear is that his death will be unavenged. He prays to God for one last shot, his wish is granted, and he kills Vezden. In his final speech Mirangula totals up the score, and — satisfied that he came out ahead — breathes his last. The episode ends with a macabre description of the uses to which his corpse will be put by various animals. At this point the scene returns to Balkaria, where some Ushgulian “priests” (bap’ær) have been taken captive. The SbMat variant states that the Savs shaved the priests’ beards off and forced them to eat k’erjin, Balkarian sourdough bread. This is regarded as a serious outrage: the wearing of a beard is a sign of the priesthood, and k’erjin is seen as an infidel substitute for sepsk’wer, the “communion bread” consumed in Svan rituals. The SvP (but not SbMat) text further mentions the humiliation of Ushgulian wives by having their underwear stripped off. The priests escape their captors and head back to Georgia. At the pass they find Mirangula’s body, and also the nine oxen he stole. They lead the animals to Ushgul to be offered at a lukhor. This word literally means “gathering,” that is, a meeting of the clan elders. The SbMat text specifies that a funeral feast (lagwæn) is held. The older version further states that invitations are sent “as far as Chubeqhev,” that is, representatives from all of Upper Svaneti attend the feast. To further mark the occasion, “wheat from Jerusalem” is used to make the sepsk’wer, and wine is brought from the Black Sea coast. (Because of the high altitude, grapes do not grow in most of Upper Svaneti). The wheat is processed at three sites in the vicinity of Ushgul, mentioned in both versions of the poem. Twetnuld is a 5000-meter peak near the border with Balkaria; At’k’wer is an alpine pasture, and the mountain named Mushur is part of the ridge separating Upper and Lower Svaneti (information from Ambak’o Ch’k’adua, Svanur t’op’onimta saleksik’ono masala [ms.]). In addition, God (in the SbMat variant, St. George of Ilor) sends an ox adorned with candles and incense as an offering. The image of an ox sent by a divinity for sacrifice recalls an incident which is reported to have occurred annually on the feastday of of St. George at the celebrated shrine in his name at Ilor (near the Black Sea coastal town of Ochamchira). The saint was believed to lead an ox to the church at night, and miraculously leave it inside the locked church. The next day, the priests opened the church doors and discovered the animal. It was then slaughtered and pieces of its meat, believed to have curative powers, were distributed to the faithful (Sergi Mak’alatia, Samegrelos ist’oria da etnograpia. Tbilisi: Sakartvelos mxaretmcodneobis sazogadoeba, 1941, pp. 354-358.) Both versions have the same rather odd conclusion: The priests are gathered in the darbæz, the upper floor of a Svanetian house, and the floor collapses under them. According to the SbMat text, “many men were injured.” The lukhor breaks up, and thus it ends. It is not known whether this account is based on an actual incident, or serves as a hyperbolic means of indicating the large number of people who attended the funeral. The deity periodically invoked in the poem is Lamrya Ushgwlæsh “(St.) Lamaria of Ushgul.” The name is ultimately derived from Mary, the mother of Jesus. The shrine dedicated in her name — an ancient stone church encircled by a wall — is located outside of Zhibiani, one of the four hamlets within the Ushgul community. 38. Dideb, dideb tarigdzelas (“Glory to the Archangel”). Source: SvP 316-317; variant in SbMat XXXI:4, pp 4-7. Recorded by Arsen Oniani in 1917 in the Lower Svan province of Lashkheti. Tarigdzela (variants include Tærglezer, Taaringzel) is the Svanified rendering of medieval Georgian Mtavarangelozi, “Archangel.” In the religious system of 19th-century Svaneti, the Archangel was one of the four chief deities, along with Khosha Gherbet, “Supreme God”; Jgëræg, “St. George”; and Lamaria. According to Charachidzé, he “functions as ‘grand vizier’ to the supreme god, exercising authority in his name, representing the power of the ‘celestial sovereign’ in the terrestial realm” [SR 286]. As is characteristic of pre-Christian Georgian hymns, praise is addressed to both the deity and the shrine dedicated to him. It is not clear which shrine inspired this poem, since there are so many (two dozen in Upper Svaneti alone) that bear the Archangel’s name. In any event, the description is probably not greatly exaggerated. First, quite a few Svanetian churches, like the one in the poem, are adjoined to a defense tower and surrounded by a stone wall. Second, no visitor to Svaneti can help being awestruck by the stunning collection of gold and silver artifacts, crosses, illuminated manuscripts, and icons that some churches have accumulated over the centuries. For the most part, these items were presented to the shrine, and hence the deity, by individuals who sought or had received some favor, or to appease the deity if — in the opinion of a seer — some disaster

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which had befallen them was an expression of divine wrath. Besides gifts of precious metals, Georgian shrines received animal sacrifices. Two different types of sacrificed animal are mentioned in the hymn to the Archangel: wild and domestic. Should a hunter kill an ibex or other important prey, he would give thanks to the gods for delivering the animal to him and sacrifice its horns to the shrine. Domestic animals (oxen, sheep, goats) were slaughtered in the shrine precincts, and a portion of their meat presented to the deity. The variant of this hymn in SbMat specifies that the sacrificed oxen were uskhway. This means that they were specially fattened by their owners and never used for farm work. These pampered animals were slaughtered on special occasions. The text of the hymn to the Archangel is closely related to that of the well-known Svanetian liturgical song Lile. Lile (the meaning of this word or name is no longer known) is believed by some to have been a hymn to the sun, which was later redone as, or combined with, an invocation of the Archangel (MP 177-183). Because of this hymn’s importance in the field of Georgian folklore studies, I will give here a translation of the complete text of a version of Lile collected by A. Shanidze in the Upper Svan village of Tskhumar in 1923: Oi, Lile, You are filled with glory, oi, Lile! Oi, Lile, Glory, glory, O Archangel, oi, Lile! Oi, Lile, We are praying for our welfare, oi, Lile! Oi, Lile, May his power stand beside us, oi, Lile! Oi, Lile, You have offerings inside (your shrine), oi, Lile! Oi, Lile, You have offerings of oxen, oi, Lile! Oi, Lile, They have horns bedecked with gold, oi, Lile! Oi, Lile, You have offerings of rams, oi, Lile! Oi, Lile, They have long and twisted horns, oi, Lile! Oi, Lile, On every ridge they paw and bellow, oi, Lile! Oi, Lile, Deer are lying at your base, oi, Lile! Oi, Lile, Your embrasures ringed with falcons, oi, Lile! Oi, Lile, A golden ring-wall lies around you, oi, Lile! Oi, Lile, A flawless house was built for you, oi, Lile! 39. Survili (“Wish”). Source: PKh 192. Recited by M. Gusharashvili in 1937 in the Pshavian village Tvalivi. Variants in OL 44 #63; GMD 243. This is a poem about unrequited love, dammed up within the singer like a lake, as deep as the crimson snake is long. There is, alas, no outlet: the young woman does not — or will not — acknowledge his love. The intense image of a lake of blood (siskhlis t’ba) does occur elsewhere in Georgian folklore. The warrior-hero Amirani and, in a quite different context, the deity Iaqhsar are nearly drowned in blood after slaughtering a family of ogres. Charachidzé [PC 43-46] sees in these accounts the echoes of a ritual purification, part of the initiation of a shaman or warrior. Whether anything in the wistful love poem presented here can be explained in the light of Charachidzé’s findings is a question best left for future research . Aleksi Bidzashvili (“Cousin Aleksi”). Source: PKh 187-188. Recited by Giorgi Mart’iashvili in 1942 in the Pshavian village Gudarakhi. Sheq’varebulis guli (“A lover’s heart”). Source: PKh 192-193. Recited by G. Ts’ik’lauri in 1941 in the village Ingeti. The term “rye-colored boy” (vazhk’atso svilis perao) does not sound as silly in Georgian as in English. It denotes a light-brown, sun-tanned complexion . T’ilebis korts’ili (“The wedding party of the lice”). Sources: GMD 140, 247; Ko 214. The poem as presented here is an amalgam of two closely related versions: one recited by Giorgi Dadalauri and Memtskhware Archemashvili in the Pshavian village Magharosk’ari in 1913, and the other by M. Ogaidze in the province of Tianeti. T’rpiali (“Love”). Source: PKh 200; variant Ko 216-7. Recited in 1936 in the Pshavian village Shuapkho by Elisbar Elisbarashvili. It is probably the case that the “old ways” against which the

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speaker in this poem rebels are those forbidding a man to marry his “sister-spouse.” Since he cannot remain with his beloved while alive, he hopes to be united with her in a quite literal sense in the grave (see the notes on ts’ats’loba in the Introduction, and poem #59) . 44. Ra bevri mit’irebia (“How long I have been weeping”). Sources: LP 97-98, Ko 219-220. Recited by Babale Mindodauri in Pshavi. The object of the intense young woman’s love appears to be a fugitive, who has fled the village after killing a man for what he (and she) believe to be a just reason. He has taken refuge in the woods. The woman does not where he is, and has presumably given the message expressed in the poem to one of his companions. In addition to giving her Christian name, Tamar, she mentions her tik’uni (translated here as “nickname”), an additional name used by family members and close friends (see Sh. Apridonidze “Das System der georgischen Personennamen” Georgica #7 [1984], pp. 21-26). Chari-rama (“Chari-rama”). Source: Ko 249-250. Collected by Al. Mirakashvili in Guria (Sak. Mus. #1924). Makhorka is a Russian word for cheap, poor-quality tobacco. Gasatkhovari kali var (“I am an unmarried woman”). Source: Ko 253. Recited by Duduna Geladze in the Gurian village Ozurgeti. Sapeikro: jarav, jarav, bzio (Spinning song: “Spinning wheel, bzio”). Source: Ko 194. Recited by L. Okrop’iridze in the Kartlian village Disevi. Georgian spinning songs, such as the two given here, typically contain nonsense syllables (bzio, chari-rama). The rhythm pattern of the first song is 6+6+8+6, the same as that of the Mingrelian poem “The sun is my mother” (#20). The phrase “shirt to be” is an attempt to render the force of the derived word sa=p’erang=e “material to be made into a shirt.” Sapeikro: araru darejanasa (Spinning song: “Araru, Darejan”). Source: Ko 194. Recited by L. Okrop’iridze in the Kartlian village Disevi. Melekhishe si reki (“There you are on the other side”). Source: LP 142 #593. Recited by Agr. Tsomaia-Iosava in the Mingrelian village Tskhak’aia in 1965. The theme of lovers separated by a river has also been treated in a celebrated poem by Vazha-Pshavela [1860-1911] entitled Gamoghmit me var, gaghma shen (“I am on this side, you’re on that side”). The first stanza reads: I am on this side, you’re on that side, A river runs between us; We have no bridge over the water, Impatient thoughts are killing us. I want to kiss you, and you to kiss me, I see you smiling over there; But there’s no way I can cross over This damned river. 50. Ana, bana, gana, dona (“Ana, bana, gana, dona”). Source: LP 120 #420. Recorded by Giorgi Natadze, ca. 1940 (site not noted). “Ana, bana, gana,” and so on, are the names of the letters in the Georgian alphabet. Many poems of this type, termed anbant-keba (“praise of the alphabet”), have been used throughout Georgia to help children learn their letters [DGF I, 41]. Net’avi ratme maktsia (“May I turn into something”). Source: Ko 241; notes pp. 397-9. Recited by M. L. Bidzinashvili in the Kartlian village K’arbi. Variant in OL 38 #20 . Tvali sheni (“Your eyes”). Source: Ko 253-4. Recited by Duduna Geladze in the Gurian village Ozurgeti. The three villages used to estimate the worth of the beloved’s features — Chonchkhati, Lesa and Ozurgeti — are located in the province of Guria .

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53-58. Round dance songs. The round dance (Georgian perqhisa or perkhuli) is an integral element in traditional religious celebrations. In Charachidzé’s analysis [SR 703ff], one of the fundamental oppositions in traditional Georgian cosmology is that between continuity and discontinuity. Human society, woven together by kinship relations, is thought of as coherent, cut from whole cloth, and as such is opposed to the world of nature, which is filled with discrete entities not linked by any comparable system. This distinction between society and nature is reflected in the symbols associated with them in Georgian culture. The perkhuli, the most solemn of Georgian dances, performed by an unbroken ring of dancers linked arm to arm, can be seen as a symbolic representation of the continuity underlying Georgian pagan society [SR 710-2]. 53. Tvalzhuzhuna kalo (“Bright-eyed woman”). Source: LP 366-368. Recited by Eprosine Bak’uradze and Tek’le Giorgashvili in the Upper Rachan village Glola in 1960. Variants in LP 354-370, Ko 6566. Variants of this poem, also known as Maghlidan gadmomdgariq’o (“She had come down from above”), have been recorded in almost every Georgian province. In the lowland regions it is performed as a choral song, or by an individual singer accompanied by the panduri. The version given here is believed to represent its most ancient form: a round dance performed by women. According to informants from Upper Racha, the dance was performed in February, at the conclusion of the festival P’iriurts’q’oba. Throughout the day the villagers abstained from all food and drink. In the evening, after breaking their fast, the women dressed up like men and the men like women. They played games, had a snowball fight, and then the women went about the village dancing and singing the Tvalzhuzhuna kalo. In performing the song, Eprosine Bak’uradze led off with the first four to six syllables of each line, and was joined by Tek’le Giorgashvili. I have tried to convey something of this manner of singing in the English translation. Ia mtazeda (“Violet on the mountain”). Source: LP 146-147. Recited by M. Murjik’neli in the Javakhetian village Baraleti in 1930. Variants in Ko 58, LP 341-349. Musical settings: GFS (two versions in 3/8 meter: one monophonic, the other — “a women’s round dance song” — for solo with three-voice choir); MFS #44 (monophonic, in 8/8 [2+3+3] meter). In the exogamous and virilocal societies of the South Caucasus, a young woman traditionally left her village in order to marry. At the same time, outsiders were regarded with a measure of suspicion, and consent to marriage was only obtained from the woman’s parents after lengthy negotiations and the exchanges of gifts. One way out of this predicament was marriage by abduction, and in fact this was once a common occurrence in the Caucasus. In most cases, the “abduction” was agreed to in advance by both families. Still, the form, if not the spirit, of the practice had to be observed, and a squad of the groom’s friends (maq’rebi) were dispatched to the bride’s village to escort her to the church. Along the way, the maq’rebi shouted and fired their rifles into the air, a vestige of their original function. In the event of an actual hostile abduction, the male relatives of the captured bride were expected to take up arms and fight to get her back. The killing of the newly-married young man by his father-inlaw in the poem harks back to this practice. But the bride, who no longer wants to be treated as her father’s chattel, protests her predicament. The opening of the poem, I believe, tells the same story in symbolic language. Evidence from other texts shows that the violet has female connotations, and the rose is its masculine counterpart (see the notes to poem #17 above). The parents sow a violet (the bride, their offspring), but a rose (the groom) appears. The male deer represents the bride’s father; she implores him not to trample her beloved, the rose. The opening and middle sections of the poem are bridged in a way that shows so well the special genius of folk literature. In killing a buck, the bridegroom is symbolically killing the father-in-law. To the anonymous creators of this poem, he is as much a party as the father-in-law is to the hostility that once accompanied the transfer of a woman from one clan to another. Charachidzé has pointed out another factor that would exacerbate the relation between bridegroom and father-in-law [PC 203]. Seen against the background of Georgian mythology, the hunter — in particular, the hunter who pursues his vocation to excess — stands in opposition to the principles of the settled agrarian life of the village, to wife, home, and hearth. In his words “l’idéologie géorgienne conçoit le chasseur excessif comme un anti-gendre [emphasis mine — KT] … La libre activité du prédateur absolu … implique la destruction du foyer et du mariage, la vanité de tous les travaux quotidiens, la négation du groupe social tel qu’il est, dans sa structure et

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ses enterprises” [PC 203, 206]. Finally, in her discussion of “Violet on the mountain” and its variants, Virsaladze offers the interpretation that — in the original form of the myth at least — the father-in-law did not intentionally shoot the bridegroom. The guilty party is the goddess-protector of wild beasts, who caused the father-in-law’s arrow to go astray and kill the young man, in revenge for the buck the latter had just slain. In some variants the bereft bride washes the hunter’s body with deer’s milk (egeb gavretskho irmis rdzitao), which is believed to be a means of counteracting Dali’s power [GOM 174-180]. 55. Perqhisa (“Round dance”). Source: PKh 62-63. Recited in 1925 by D. Gianashvili, in the Pshavian village T’ushurebi. Variant in Ko 259-260. This poem and its accompanying dance are associated with Lasharis jvari “Lashari’s Cross.” The name Lashari comes from the epithet for Tamar’s son and successor Giorgi IV Lasha (1194-1223). In the religious system of the Georgian mountaineers Lashari is the male counterpart of the deity which bears Tamar’s name (for an extensive discussion of this topic see SR §8). Lashari’s shrine in the Pshav community of Qhmelgora is regarded as especially powerful by the Georgian mountaineers. Unlike the other shrines, which pertain to individual family groups, Lashari’s Cross presides over all of the twelve Pshavian clans. In Charachidzé’s words “the sanctuary of Lashari, paired with that of Tamar nearby, is the political and religious center of the entire Pshav territory” [SR 639]. Its major festival, called Lasharoba, not only draws worshippers from all of the provinces of northeast Georgia, but even the nominally-Muslim Kist’is will set aside their perpetual feuds with the Georgians in order to ask the protection of this powerful deity [DGF I, 229]. The opening line attributes what follows to the mouth of “Lashari’s Cross.” It may well be that this text originated in the words of a kadagi (oracle), who saw a manifestation of Lashari in a vision. (Readers interested in Georgian oracular practice, reminiscent of shamanism in some respects, will find a wealth of information in SR §2). There follows a recounting of the tree-felling incident already discussed in the notes to poem #18 (“Speak, o fortress ruins”). This version places particular emphasis on the vengeance exacted by the deity on a certain Aptsiauri, who is said to have given away the secret of how to destroy the tree. Lashari “consumed” the descendants of Aptsiauri, and the clan died out. (Some versions omit this section, and begin with the lines “We gathered in God’s court”). In the second section of the poem, Dambadebuli, “the Creator,” speaks. This personage is credited with the creation of the universe — land, seas, and sky — and also is the progenitor of the deities known as the “offspring of God.” Among them we have “three score and three St. Georges,” that is, sixty-three shrines of that name with their guardian spirits. (Other mythological texts give the number as “three hundred three score and three,” so that each day of the year a St. George is commemorated somewhere in Georgia). Tamar is also numbered among the divine offspring. Some of the exploits recounted in poem #22 (“I was Tamar the Queen”) are echoed here: placing boundary-markers in the sea, bringing the dry land under her rule. There is a shrine dedicated to her (Tamar-Ghele) not far from Lashari’s Cross. In the final section Lashari’s horse and army are mentioned. The term q’ma “vassal, serf, servant” here denotes the community — specifically, its menfolk — who are said to be the “vassals” or “subjects” of their patron deity. Pshavi itself is referred to as Lashari’s saq’mo, “fief.” Like a good feudal lord, Lashari will come to the aid of a vassal who remains faithful to him . Betgil (“Betgil”). Source: MP 95-97. Narrated by Tengiz Dadishkeliani in 1923 in the Upper Svan village Becho. Transcribed by A. Shanidze. Variants in SbMat XXXI:4, pp 40-43; SvP 282-285, and MP 209-227. The ballad of the Svan hunter variously known as Betkil, Betken, or Metki is in fact a mythological poem, and it is sung while dancing the solemn round dance known as the samti ch’ishkhæsh [GOM 113-14]. The text presents a number of problems, not only for the general reader but for experts on Georgian folklore as well. Fortunately, in the first volume of his collection of Georgian folk poetry Chikovani has published seven variants of the Betgil poem, and comparison among them does much to clarify many obscure passages. I will walk the reader through the text, and provide as succinctly as possible the information necessary to render the poem comprehensible. Betgil (or Betkan) is one of several fabled Svan hunters who met an unhappy end in pursuit of his livelihood (for a selection of poems on this theme, see MP 195-243). We have already encountered Mepsay, who was killed by his own bullet after he refused to share the bed of the hunter-deity Dali

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(poem #3). Another hunter, Chorla, was punished for killing too many game animals [SvP 288-296]. The cause of Betgil’s demise will be discussed presently. SCENE I. The villagers of Mulakh and Muzhal, two neighboring communities of Upper Svaneti, have assembled to dance a round dance, the murgwæl or ch’ishkhæsh. This dance is an important component of certain Svanetian festivals. The roe deer (in other versions, a chamois or an ibex) is said to be white, and it runs through Betgil’s legs into the circle. The disruption of the round dance by a wild animal is a powerful symbol: The deer, a representative of the world of nature, has intruded on the realm of human society, symbolized by the circle of dancers. (All versions specify that the beast ran between Betgil’s legs. This has led at least some to the implication that he was castrated by the animal’s horns [Howard Aronson, private comunication] — a not implausible reading given the sexual nature of Betgil’s “offense” against Dali.) SCENE II. In pursuit of the deer, Betgil heads toward the top of a mountain, specified in one version as Mt. Totan, a 3000-meter mountain about 10 km south of Mulakh. Although Betgil can see the tracks of the animal before him, when he turns around there are no tracks visible behind him. This is clearly no ordinary deer. In one version it is said to be a black demon, which turns into a white roe deer after Betgil takes off after it; others imply that it is Dali herself. According to some variants the path behind Betgil is “becoming ruined” (khedomeni): there is no way back. SCENE III. Betgil is confronted by the goddess Dali, who is frequently portrayed as the secret lover of successful hunters. She asks him for a trinket she had given him as a token of their love after an earlier tryst. He has left the string of beads under his pillow, in the bed he shares with his wife, of whom Dali is jealous. (The appearance of this particular prop is further evidence that Dali and the eastern Georgian deity Samdzimari [“the bead-wearing one”] have a common origin. See the notes to poem #30). She decides that Betgil has been unfaithful to her and abandons him on the cliff, hanging by one foot and one hand. Other versions lay the blame on an affair between Betgil and his telaghra (son’s or brother’s wife) Tamar. In any event, Betgil has violated the taboo against contact with mortal women before going hunting [GOM 74]. SCENE IV. Betgil realizes he is doomed. For the sake of his soul in the afterlife, Betgil asks his mother to bake kut and ch’ishdwar, flat round loaves with cheese in the middle. These two types of bread have a particular association with the Svanetian rites for the commemoration of the dead. In one version, Betgil’s wife is asked to dye her headdress red, the traditional funerary color. SCENE V. Some versions, but not this one, describe the efforts of the villagers to rescue Betgil. In one particularly difficult version [SvP 282-285], the rock-tower on which he is trapped magically rises to keep him out of reach of the ladders brought by a rescue party (chukwan k’ichkhærs migæmalakh, murq’wam zhibav brets’enila). Finally, Betgil falls (shq’edeni) to his death. Three other variants, including the oldest one, state that Betgil jumps (khosk’ida) from the cliff. I will not venture into the treacherous domain of interpreting the Betgil poems, but I can refer the curious reader to two monographs that deal with Betgil and the other doomed-Svan-hunter poems in considerable detail: Virsaladze’s GOM, and Charachidzé’s PC (especially pp.131-172). According to the latter, traditional Georgian ideology opposed the life of the hunter or warrior — who prefers the wide-open spaces far from human habitations, and who kills at will — to that of the peasant, bound to home, hearth, and village (as mentioned in the notes to poem #54). The conflict is resolved in mythological language by literally inverting (hanging from a cliff) the hunter who overkills. 57. Dghesam dgheoba visia? (“Today is whose festival?”). Source: MP 114. Recorded by S. Mak’alatia in the Tushetian village Chigho in 1933. The song was accompanied by an elaborate two-tiered round dance known as the kor-beghela, “tower-granary,” which was performed at the annual festival of Lashari [= Giorgi Lasha (see #55 above)] in Tusheti. Mak’alatia provided the following description of this fascinating dance: “The men formed a mighty ring, each man’s arm around the shoulder of his neighbor. A second ring formed on top of the first, and this two-tiered circle moved toward the shrine (khat’i) while singing ‘Today is whose festival? — St. George’s festival …’ The people all participated in the kor-beghela, because, in their belief, those who did not join in would be jinxed by the shrine. The kor-beghela must proceed in a direct line toward the doors of the shrine without collapsing, no matter how long or difficult the path might be. Outside the shrine doors the kor-beghela rotates three times while calling: ‘May Lashari’s jvari have mercy on you,’ and then

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breaks up” [MT 213; cp. MP 267-68]. The dancing of the kor-beghela is also a means of foretelling the future: Should the “tower-granary” collapse, or the song be badly sung, it is an omen that humans and livestock will suffer misfortune [SR 650-1]. V. Bardavelidze included a photograph of men dancing the kor-beghela in her survey of the shrines of Tusheti [TCM Vol II, Pt 2, p. 135]. The photo dates from 1965, and shows four men in the top ring, supported on the shoulders of about eight to ten men in the lower ring. That evening, after the singing and dancing have concluded, the young people of the locality are expected to pair off with their “brother-spouse” or “sister-spouse,” and indulge in the pleasures of ts’ats’loba. They may do this in the vicinity of the shrine or even inside it. For the Georgian mountaineer, according to Vazha Pshavela, “ts’ats’loba is a sacred and religious activity. They say that ts’ats’loba is obligatory for the vassals of Lashari [i.e., the Pshavians (see the notes to #55 above)] … That is why these amorous practices are permitted and indeed recommended within the interior of the sanctuary” [cited in SR 651-2]. The banner (drosha) mentioned in the third line is an important item found in most shrines in the mountain districts. It is carried at the head of the procession on feast days. According to Zurab K’ik’nadze (pers. comm.), the symbol of the cypress tree (alva) is to be interpreted in the light of the “Knight in the leopard’s skin,” in which the cypress is referred to as “the tree of Eden” [VT 77:4; also 51:1 and 522:1]. The reference to “the woman and man who sinned against it” then becomes obvious. 58. Samaia (“Samaia”). Sources: Ko 59; Go 23-4. Recorded in Kartli. This song accompanies a round dance that is danced by women only. It is believed to be very ancient: A fresco in the 900-year-old Cathedral of the Living Column in Mtskheta, which bears the name “Samaia,” depicts three women dancing in a ring. Unfortunately, the dancing of the Samaia has all but disappeared in lowland Georgia, though it is said to be still performed at weddings in the mountain provinces [Ko 355] .

59-61. Funerary poems. The three poems presented here represent two closely related genres: poems intoned in the memory of the deceased (khmit nat’irali), and hay-mowing songs (mtibluri). The khmit nat’irali was often performed responsorially, with a local woman noted for her singing ability — sometimes a professional hired for this purpose — singing a phrase, after which the body of mourners replies with a refrain (see the collection of texts, with photos and musical transcriptions, in CD 91-158). The soloist will weave information about the deceased into the text of the khmit nat’irali, which may go on for some time. There are strong similarities between the musical and textual structure of the khmit nat’irali and that of the mtibluri. According to a singer from the province of Rach’a, the hay-mowing song “is like mourning or lamentation [motkma-t’irilivit ], but more brisk” [WP 506]. Furthermore, in Khevsureti the villagers will participate in a commemorative banquet for the recently deceased before commencing the hay harvest in late July [DGF I, 184]. This curious conjunction of hay-mowing and the dead is discussed at some length by Charachidzé in SR. According to his analysis, traditional Georgian religion was structured by a matrix of binary oppositions, which extended to almost all aspects of the human, animal, and vegetable domains. Women, vodka, and hay, for example, are aligned with the underworld; and men, beer, and meat are linked with the gods. The chanting of funerary songs while mowing hay is one reflection of the underlying structure of ancient Georgian cosmology. 59. Darishk’anit momk’wdari (“Dead from poison”). Source: ShKh #522. Collected in Khevsureti by Tedo Razik’ashvili. This is a lamentation for a young woman who killed herself by drinking rat poison while in seclusion in the menstruation hut (samrelo). The mention of “Thursday night” in the third line makes it clear that the woman was a ts’ats’ali (young Khevsur women customarily spent Thursday and Saturday nights with their “brother-spouses”). The reason for her suicide is not stated, but it has been noted that when the time came to break with their ts’ats’ali in order to marry, many young women in Pshavi and Khevsureti preferred death. Charachidzé [SR 102] states that the suicides usually occurred in the menstruation hut, a place viewed with horror and disgust by men (the words “a woman as low as can be” may reflect this attitude); see also CD 52-3, FY 129-130. Zhamis naqhots kalebze (“To the women slaughtered by the plague”). Source: RP #72. Recited by Ashekal Ch’inch’arauli in the Khevsur village Shat’ili. “Many years ago,” according to Chikovani

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and Shamanadze, “there was an outbreak of the plague in Khevsureti, and many died. Whole groups of infected people would go to the mausoleum (ak’ldama), located outside of the village. They sheltered themselves there and awaited the end.” The mausoleums are still to be seen near Shat’ili (FY 66-76). 61. Net’avi mok’la marjek’ali (“Woe betide the matchmaker”). Source: WP #701. Recited by Kh. Kist’auri in the province of Pshavi. According to the commentary accompanying the poem, a woman from the village Khoshara took her child with her out to the fields at harvest time. In mountainous districts such as Pshavi, where arable land is at a premium, every bit of earth that can feasibly be worked is under cultivation, even where the terrain is quite steep. Presumably for this reason the protagonist of the poem hitched the cradle containing her child to a bush (specified as a brats’i, a decorative bush with white flowers of the family Spirea). The earth began to tremble, not a rare occurrence in the Caucasus, and the cord binding the cradle to the bush snapped. The cradle rolled down into the ravine, killing the infant. As represented in the poem, the bereaved mother cannot bear to return to her husband’s village, and is wandering disconsolately in the ravine collecting the pieces of her child’s body. The version given here is a hay-mowing song, based on the woman’s lament for her dead child.

62-70. Love poems. Much has been said in the Introduction to this anthology (Section 4) and in the Notes concerning the institution of ts’ats’loba in pre-Christian Georgian society: its sacred aspect, its nature as an “antimarriage.” It seems appropriate to conclude the anthology with a selection of the delightful love poems inspired by ts’ats’loba. Most are short, a simple quatrain improvised by a love-smitten mountain lad or lass, either to be recited or sung to the accompaniment of the threestringed panduri. Some poems impressed their hearers enough to be memorized and handed down, and a few dozen have made it into folklore chrestomathies, or ethnographic accounts such as SKh 174-82 or FY 133-40, 166-7. One well-known example was quoted by Vazha-Pshavela in a 1914 essay on the image of women in Pshav folklore (P£avlebi, etnograpiuli masala: dedak’aci): You, my great hope, Sun, spreading forth in the morning Source of immortality, You flow through a pipe of gold, May I be sated at your side, Lying and sleeping beside you. May I be a field for your sickle, That I be mown by its blade — Or may I become your sworn sister To feel pangs in my heart for you, Or may I be a golden cup, That I be filled with wine for you, May I be tinted in red, Drink me — I will refresh you, May I be a silken shirt, That I might melt on your heart. Most of the following verses come from the anthology of Pshavian and Khevsur poetry edited by I. Khornauli. 62. Bat’arik’a kalai var (“I am a very young woman”). Source: PKh 195. Recited by G. Khornauli in the Pshavian village Grdzelch’ala in 1939. Net’avi kalo ninao (“Nina woman”). Source: LP 69. Recited by D. Gurgenidze in the Kartlian village Ertats’minda in 1930. Variants in LP 214-215, PKh 207.

63.

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ia mtazeda
64. Eter, shen silamazita (“Eter, with your beauty”). Source: PKh 208. Recited by N. Khornauli in the Pshavian village Magraneti in 1939 . Aksha, aksha, mamalo (“Aksha, aksha, rooster, scram”). Source: PKh 208. Recited by N. Khornauli in Magraneti in 1939 . Zghvashi shatsurda k’urdgheli (“A rabbit swam into the sea”). Source: PKh 209. Recited by El. Elisbarashvili in the Pshavian village Shuapkho in 1946. Variants in OL 45 #65 and 63 #167. According to the Kartlian variants in OL (collected ca. 1880), the poet is spun around “like a whetstone” (kharat’ivita). Net’ain mamk’la mtashia (“May I die in the mountains”). Source: PKh 216. Recited by Ioseb Udzilauri in the Khevsur village Kvemo Kedi in 1946 . Tval k’i mich’erav shenzeda (“I have an eye on you”). Source: PKh 216. Recited by N. Elisbarashvili in the Pshavian village Shuapkho in 1940. Variants in LP 49, 174 . Nadobis k’abas vapere (“I likened it to my sister-spouse’s dress”). Source: PKh 206. Narrated by K’ok’o Udzilauri in 1938 in the Kakhetian village P’ank’isi. Variants in LP 129, 300. The central idea of the poem is conveyed by an omen, which Z. K’ik’nadze unravelled for me as follows: The shepherd is tending his flocks in the summer grazing lands. A butterfly appears, a messenger from the land of souls. The butterfly’s coloration reminds him of the dress worn by the woman with whom he had contracted a bond of ts’ats’loba, which can be read as an omen that she has died. The shepherd begs God that the omen not be true, and tells the butterfly to pass on some good news (his sheep are doing well) to his sister-spouse, wherever she is. Dghe tu ghame (“Day or night”). Source: Go 144-6. Variants in ShKh 143-144, 518-520; FY 139140; SR 97-8 (in French). I will just touch on two details in the poem that require amplification: First, the straw upon which the young couple are enjoying themselves is probably inside a stable. The Caucasian mountain tribes used to have the practice, found in many parts of the world, of secluding women from the rest of the family during times of blood flow: childbirth and menstruation [ONS 140]. In some areas (for example Khevsureti) the women retreated to a special hut (samrelo); in Pshavi the stable fulfilled this role. Given the extremely grave consequences that an illegitimate child would bring crashing down on their heads, the young ts’ats’lebi usually confined their lovemaking to this time of the month, when the risk of pregnancy was at a minimum. The poem also contains a reference to a bottle of vodka, which the woman brings with her to the tryst in the stable. This calls to mind a ritual observed in Svaneti at the end of the last century: The couple forming a bond of lintural (the Svanetian equivalent of ts’ats’loba) seal their new relationship by invoking God’s blessing and drinking cups of vodka, as a sign that this bond was sanctioned by heaven as well as the community.